Two days blog-less, I doubt if anyone really cares, but I might wonder if I'm still alive, buried in snow or wrapped around a tree on the way down from Burks Cabin Lane. Today I feel snowed under deadlines, but not too deep to toss away things I'd rather do, because if I did that the work would lose its point. We didn't leave the rat race to race rats. I'll change my calendar if I must.
So, as the grass turned white at noon, I headed up to Arrowhead Lodge, where I feel most comfortable writing and practicing. I'm writing a trio. Those words on paper create a contract.
"Oh, please," says Virginia, "what about me? Did you tear mine up? I've counted the I's in this selfish rant. You've already passed a dozen."
She's right, if you count hers. Besides, what's a blog for? Some day you'll read one without that capital letter and you'll probably wonder what's up. No, her contract is intact, waiting, knowing that extended prose takes even more patience than a blog or a poem.
See, a whole paragraph free of that cap.
"Big whoop," she says. "It was still there."
Make that four paragraphs.
The Bowman Women; A Work In Progress
1 week ago