There are dishes in the sink.
Max needs a shower.
I should put in that load of laundry.
Maybe now is a good time to clean out the junk drawer in the kitchen.
Or roll all that change in the big jar.
Anything to keep from sitting down to write.
If writing is a muscle, mine fell asleep and is now achy and cranky and doesn't want to move.
Also, my actual muscles are achy and cranky because Pilates.
I've said this before; I need to keep up with it because then my brain gets rusty.
It's like summer slide for grown-ups.
I want to sit down and write, I really do.
I want the words to come,
to overtake my hands as they fly across the keyboard.
I want them to flow out of me and across the screen.
I consider writing a poem, but then flash back to those terrible, terrible poems I penned in high school.
A post with all images is cheating, and I have no images to share.
I wonder if I've bitten off more than I can handle right now;
I can't believe Max starts first grade this month.
It isn't good,
it isn't strong,
but it's grammatically correct
and I'm writing.
That counts, right?