cabbages, gingerroot, and a crucifix
Some days it’s a slow stream, just strong enough to keep the mill wheel turning.
Some days I can feel the story forming, still so fragile that if I poke at it too much it will collapse into a heap of unusable shards.
Some days I have to catch it before it slips away — or, more likely, before I realize that it’s a bad idea.
Some days it is a bad idea, and I do it anyway, giggling over just how ludicrous this is and what am I even thinking to write this. (Somehow, those often seem better when I come back to the drafts.)
Some days the plots spin out one after the other until I’m curled up in bed well after I should have fallen asleep, scrawling barely-legible sentences in my notebook.
Some days there’s a pressure at the back of my head because I’ve almost got it, I’ve almost found the key, and when the last piece slides into place it’s like the world finds a new axis.
Some days it’s just putting one stone on another.
And some days I can look back and see that yes, I’ve built a lot and yes, there’s still a lot to add, and the world is just getting bigger around me.
Hello world. I’m writing again. How are you?
Margaret Ronald 