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Writing is a solitary pursuit--the imagination guiding the hand moving the pen. I'm pretty old-school, valuing the work of good editors and the revisions process before letting my words go public. But life is short, right? And sometimes, just sometimes, we need to spout off.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Sun-day

A frigid morning that makes you wanna cut to the chase. The rigidity of frozen pavement; banks and yards of rock-hard snow. The impatience this brings: no leisurely strolls, no meandering along the seawall. No lingering.
A certain pragmatism that says: outline.
Take the snowballs and chunks of ice, melt them down to their essence.
Water. Molecules that move.
The day's task: shoveling through pages and pages of accumulation, looking for a flow. Whatever solid, stubborn stream lies buried, and charting it.
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