I spend a lot of time talking to myself.
Day in Day out. I tell myself stories. Sometimes they are good stories. Other times they are just ways to the time and I don’t mourn them when I lose them to memory. Lately, I have been telling a lot of stories and they have making their way onto the page. Two of those stories were written in the days that followed my beloved Papa being admitted to the hospital. I talked to myself and wrote a story. And then another.
Two poems and then another story.
The week and the summer have passed quickly. Papa has been released. He has given up his beloved beer in order to spend the rest of his life with the family he made possible. The beer he gave me inspired a neighbor to cut my lawn when I left it on his front porch.
I stepped in front of the mike and didn’t freeze.
I stepped out of my comfort zone and used the words I tell myself to send a message to the universe. And another poem was birthed.
Met someone new for coffee and another story was trapped on the page.
A friend stopped by and we shot a video to help get my novella, Blood Child, out into the world.
And then it started raining in my house.
I am pretty sure there is another story or poem about to burst forth.