month two

in which our favorite friend shuts his mouth and waits for inspiration.

Shocking, I know!

All my writer friends are silent. The king is encouraging, but can't figure out why I just don't finish the last two chapters. I keep taking deep breaths and nothing comes out.

Back to writing even though I don't feel like it.

It's a beautiful, cool, fall day. The little boy down the street whizzes back and forth on his bike. (question: if peripatetic is the adjective for "back and forth" - like Aristotle, did you know? - anyway. . . . if that's the adjective, is there a verb? To peripatate, perhaps? Or peripate? And if not, why not?!) Anyway: the gold finch are momentarily in the ascendancy on the thistle feeder, having vanguished the house finches. MoFo is in place on the highwire holding off all comers to the hummingbird feeder. The squirrels are elsewhere - can't figure it - but I haven't seen them all morning. And the locusts are in full swing - at full voice. How could anyone write with this kind of racket going on?!

Ah - Labor Day Weekend. Next door, the set up begins for the cookout. We're going to the 'country club' - if you can imagine! I'm quite thrilled at the prospect. If only as a time not to be writing. A time I'm not even expected to think about writing!