Thursday, May 21, 2009


Bending beside back roads it flows, this stream swollen with fallen rain. Each drop of water adding itself to the creek, pounding itself into the nearby soil and rolling down the bank to flow and flood, each drop of water like one more piece of information. At a certain point it becomes clear that we can hold no more. The stream has spilled over its banks already, and even one more critique or piece of advice cannot be held or comprehended rationally by the tired brain. I love coming to writers conferences I love the energy, I love each conversation, each drop of water, each cutting critique, each "you had to be there" hysterical moment. I am sad when they end. But I am full to the brim and spilling over with floods of ideas and projects.

1 comment:

My dear, few, readers you inspire me to keep writing. Thank you.

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