A brief tale of woe from a writer out of control. Having published a book about feral cats last year, with little planning and certainly no thought of any more books for children, I find myself–for any number of oddball reasons–two-thirds of the way through what is now Book 2 in a series and, at the same time, almost halfway through Book 3, with the addition, just today, of an idea for an inevitable Book 4. I write all day. My eyeballs ache. My laptop is complaining. I am complaining. But I can’t seem to stop.
I recognize a tendency to workaholism in myself, and my philosophy has ever been
“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing to excess.”
Still. My only respite is images. I roam my small co-op photographing everything and nothing. The air plant, for instance, while quite vain, still has begun to complain. I run out of words in the middle of conversations. I have only images to share. Today, the long-suffering air plant and a few roots.