Sweet Southern Spring

The writing goes in fits and starts. While I'm not Ignatius J. Reilly, who only managed a line or two every few years, I'm hardly Stephen King, who has churned out six pages every day since he first took up his pen at the age of ten and is now rolling in the green fruits of his labor. I'd settle for a happy medium, but these days, the thought of even five hundred words makes me want to roll over and sleep for a thousand years. Where did my passion go? Perhaps it fled from me along with my estrogen levels.

Today is beautiful, but it's only a brief respite between violent storm fronts. I'd love to go to the hotel again, but I doubt that's in the financial cards, so we'll likely ride it out in the grocery store or, joy of joys, the Walmart. For today, though, the view from the picture window is breathtaking, and the neighborhood is peaceful despite the orange-jacketed fuckwits tearing up the road for an expansion that nobody needs. The sky is an impossible blue, and the grass is the emerald green of fairy tales. For today, I like living here, and I'm off to enjoy it.