I haven’t written in a while. Too busy with summer, with new work. It makes me guilty when I think about it, when anyone mentions it. Oli says it with a quiet yearning that causes my eyes to flicker to the black mesh of the laptop case, tucked and forgotten underneath the wooden bowl full of keys.
And that guilt keeps me from writing. It makes me scared, afraid to open it up and clatter loudly on the black keys, as though stage fright dogs me even in quiet reflection. I think that nothing will just fly out from fingertips ready to be put on show. And because I think that, nothing does.
I wrote half a book in November. The problem is I have no more words. I have no more twists, and whether that stems from the lack of beaches and language barriers or from the lack of decent previous twists, I don’t know. I read more than I write now. Beautiful books, full of haunting personification and blissful description. But what good is inspiration if you don’t put it to use?
When I write I am in flow. Even now, while my writing is so inane and predictably daily my mind is away, thinking above, skipping a line below, all the while knitting and weaving the words together. Sometimes I don’t pause in my typing for what feels like hours. Then the pause happens, and I almost lose it, like a receipt snatched away by the wind, grabbed at by a desperate outstretched hand.
And so the photos, photos of a busy summer and smiling sisters, heavy skies streaked with gold. I hope you all enjoy them.