Scrabbling around inside my brain waiting for words to rain, for something to fit and make sense, words that say what I want them to, in the right tense. Trying to write every day sometimes at night or at midday. Ideas come and they go away, oh how I wish they would come and play.
What is it I’m trying to say? Am I talking about my day? Maybe I’m letting my mind just stray to see what happens by the end of the day. Go for a coffee a change of scene, people around doing their thing, a couple of people are about to send. Should i write about daisies and grass or should I let that idea come to pass. Rain sitting glistening on the grass and soaking the path. Should I write about what raises my wrath or should I write something totally daft.
When I decide I let nothing hide but redraft and craft. Look for errors spelling mistakes over and over for my ego sake. Should I finish it or break for tea and cakes, out on the lawn from morning until Dawn. I finally put pen to paper and write what I do. Finish it off then read it through its surprising what you can do.
Rhythm of the Ink 