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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s