The day is more than I require to write. Everything around me is begging to be put into a story of some kind. An early morning phone call or a text with pictures. Watching as a neighbor tries to carry too much to his car and ends up spilling coffee on his suit. A kid running to catch the school bus, his sneaker falling off as he climbed onto the first step. Everything I see or hear brings my imagination to life and ink to paper.
My dog scratching himself a never-ending event that drives me as crazy as it does him. I can write about that. Getting some sun at the pool, peace, and quiet until grandkids arrive all smiles and sunscreen. I can write about that too. So many hours in a day and so many words to compliment them. Evening and the last ripple in the pool is gone leaving some floaties whirling around in the filter, a couple of noodles left behind.
The kids are headed home a little sunburned and full of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I take a seat at the keyboard trying to make words. The silence is to me like a drink of whiskey to a drinker. The day has given me inspiration, but my hands only rest on the keyboard, waiting a few minutes for the day to playback. My dog is scratching himself again as I smile and begin to write.
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