Is it just the transition from summer to fall that makes me feel as if I’m swimming underwater? Rather, it’s too thick, too heavy, too opaque to be water, more like a bisque. Maybe it’s just that I’m no longer working on my novel every day. I’m waiting for more feedback before final edits. Maybe that’s it, the waiting.
I would like to start on a new novel, but I don’t have the idea for that yet. I was halfway through a flash piece, when my inspiration flew south.
I could be cleaning my house. I’m a dinosaur who still does fall and spring cleaning, and my mother and youngest sister are coming to visit in about a month. But I can’t get my mind in gear for that.
a deep daydream,
not quite here,
not enough light,
on the edge of sleep,