Wednesday, August 16, 2006
There was a time when I could write. A time when passion flowed through my fingers and the words weaved themselves together with ease. My ideas were endless. The perfect sentence was as easy as dotting the lower case j. Today I find that constructing the perfect sentence is much like predicting the weather. I just go with a hunch and most of the time I'm wrong. My words are left without an umbrella in which to deflect the rain away from my craft. My sentences are as predictable as playdough. I type either snakes or pancakes and in the end it always ends up brown and crusty. I reread without much hope. I post with embarrasment. I lose my best material to sentence fragments and a poor vocabulary. I can turn an amazing piece into Grandma's knitted blanket: pretty, warm, too many holes.