How strange. I have not been able to write creatively in well over a month and yet a word, "wisteria," sneaks into mind that brings a necessary scent and touch to an old story and I know that it belongs there. I write it in, make a few more subtle changes.
And close the file without an ending still.
On second thought, it’s not so odd I suppose. Faulkner’s left me with the choking scent of honeysuckle, and Caddy smells like trees.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology