I envy those writers who can spin a beautifully flowing tale in just stolen moments. Fifteen minutes here, an hour there, a spattering of lines on a paper napkin and voilà! A publishable story appears like magic.
I am not that kind of writer.
If the last few weeks of reconstruction mayhem have taught me nothing else, it is that. I’ve got to have at least two hour stretches of uninterrupted authoring for my work to be worth a darn thing.
These self-realizations sting, and I don’t appreciate them. Just saying.
Until the Friday update…