Writing has been tricky lately. It's not that life has stopped me—quite the opposite. Stories keep building in my mind, but when I try to put them down, they vanish like mist, leaving only fragments behind.
Life, though, has been full of small joys. We've added a new member to our small family: a black-and-white American bulldog-pit mix puppy. Writer Cat, predictably, isn't sure what to make of him. She sneaks up and sniffs him when he's asleep on me, curious but cautious. The moment he moves, she bolts as if a tiny hellhound has invaded her kingdom. Yet she tries, in her own catlike way, to correct his every misstep, swatting or hissing at the things he shouldn't do when we tell him no. She's turned into a regular mother hen.
Despite the chaos, the puppy has brought unexpected freedoms. Writer Cat now roams the backyard like a queen on patrol, exploring corners she'd never dared to before and attempting to hunt prey far larger than herself—so far with no success, much to my amusement.
Some days, the words are slow to come. Other days, the joy of small, ordinary adventures reminds me that they're still there, waiting softly, quietly, ready to spill onto the page when the time is right.
Add comment
Comments