Bogged down blog flog...

Okay, now that I'm half-addicted to blogging, a day's load of chores has postponed today's installment. But here we go, better late than never. For what it's worth, the florist and the goutweed are no farther ahead than yesterday. The problem is plot. Plot that keeps slipping away like a poodle's scent in (yellow) snow. Sorry, it's just that my dog is on my mind; he of decrepit body and a puppylike spirit. More of the same vis a vis yesterday's homily: reality versus dream. Idea versus rendition. Here's the thing: I have a cast of characters, a setting, even an idea for pastiche-like intrigue; the character who's nagging has a name and a situation and lots of things she wants, and problems, she's got those too. The problem, my problem, is that I still have Trevor's Love and Summer in my head and I just can't see how a plot involving my goutweed-afflicted florist could ever be half so brilliant. The problem is I want to flick a switch, yank a chain, and there, there it will be, illuminated: a story, its elegant stripped-down form sitting there like a perfectly-groomed cat. A little, lithe black cat, one with no fleas or gluttonous appetite; one that needs no shots, no Meow Mix or litter box, and never picks the furniture. The trouble is, such a cat would be stuffed, right? A proper little plushie. (Sorry - I hope that reference doesn't trigger obscene pop-ups.) The trouble is, maybe I need to wait a little longer for this plot, perfect or imperfect, to claw me, hook me long enough that its purr drags me in. It takes so much stroking, so much feeding, so much patience to raise a story out of nothing. The truth is, everyone who does it is a magician, pulling you-know-whats outta their hats, rarely doves or bunnies.