And now I get tired. And miffed. Perplexed in lost in my thoughts and realization of time and times and how both pass with disregard for me and my body’s ability to catch them. But I keep writing no matter how scattered I get. Some standalones, 50 words. Others, 50,000 like my novel which I’m still picking at, dropping into my laptop. Spin spin spin– And I sip X 3, this Chardonnay that tells me to get lost, lost in my own time and forget the clock. The wine, boasts its freedom to me.
Do I get angry, or bemused? A-mused? Where is my muse? Which chapters to I choose?