There are a multitude of writers, talented writers and then there’s me. I just sit here, pulling on my cigarette, scribbling and listening, always listening, to a million words as they gallivant through my head, trying to find order, trying to make sense, trying to grow into something that someone else might want to read and will they obtain any pleasure if they do? Maybe.
It’s always hit and miss, either my garden will flourish or it dies, sometimes, most times it dies- from a long, miserable drought and the words become tiny little grains in a sandstorm, blowing all around and I can’t see, I can’t catch them but, then there are brief moments when the heavens open and the rain comes in a drenching downpour and I sit here, pulling on my cigarette, scribbling, listening to them again, always listening.
Magic in the Backyard™