It's two days after the glamor and glitz of December 25th. Instead of a blanket of snow we have puddles of dark, icky mud that sticks to the paws of our pups. Weary. My hubby has the flu. I'm trying to nail just one or two witty sentences to complete my book proposal.
It will never happen. I'll never be done with this book. It will never get published.
Words like that crawl around my head, creating a bleak certainty--as bleak as the gray Ohio sky defying me to be creative. Heavy.
"But!" I lift my chin to the drizzly gloom. Real writers don't sit and wait for inspiration. I order my muse to drill from my fingertips onto the page. Haha!
It's coming...
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