That’s the thing about writing. Dark windowless spaces were made for it. Seasons were not.

When I’m writing full time, as I am now, the beauty of the trees, the living bluegreen of the sky-reflecting river, the birds and lizards…they might as well be painted on glass.

The garden is overgrown and unplanted. The lawn wants mowing. My thoughts, too, are overgrown, in this daily love/hate struggle that is working on a book. I am in love with the drama inside my skull. I am alive in the music in there.

One of these days, I’ll look up, characters at rest, challenges past, words a vague overtone, and wonder what happened to the seasons while I was gone.

Nature, disengaged, becomes a friend with whom you haven’t spoken in a while, but loyal and loving, still. Trust me, you tell it, trust me; I’ll be back. Did you miss me?

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