Cloudy, cold and windy this morning, the remnants of the storms that passed through yesterday. The local weatherman reported that the science backs up my suspicions – it has been colder and wetter than normal here this year. Colder, and wetter, it seems than it has been in many years. It’s made pulling myself from the grip of winter that much harder. Still, I am here, dreaming of the warm sun on my skin. Peter Pan says to think happy thoughts and you can fly.
Working on the novel today. This blog feels like that first book sometimes. I have no audience, really, save myself at this point. Like the entries I make here, this first book is written for me, whether I sell it or not, whether anyone ever reads it. It is my cry out into the aether, my scratched paintings on the wall of a cave, my thin, ever-so-human voice calling out into the darkness. Will anyone hear? Who knows. What’s important is the sound. When I am dead, all that will be left are the memories of me in the hearts of my children and these words. The memories will pass away, as all intangible things do. But my words – my words will remain.
After the cut, the requisite a-ha video of the day.
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Keep up the good work, I like your writing.