Didn’t come home for lunch today because the neighborhood’s streets are being repaved after forty or so years. How do I know it was that long ago? Elbie knows and he told me.
Instead I ate my chicken wrap outside the library across from the courthouse. I was still obsessing over any missteps / blunders / et al. I may have made this weekend. In the midst of that miasma of self-doubt, I had a single thought break through like a sunbeam.
“Write your fucking stories. When you finish a story, then your wish(es) will come true.”
I stopped, tilted my head like a dog who heard something strange and listened again.
“Write your fucking stories. Then your wish(es) will be granted.”
The voice said “write”, not publish. I’ve been tooling around on The Whisperer on Elm Street off and on for the past nine months. Reckon it’s about time to just sit down and start writing, regardless of where it goes on the page.