Amazing time of day, just before sunset without a visible sun. Dark shreds of clouds flying through a yellow grey sky. Treetops aggravated, agitated by their own perception of winds presaging the plotting of storms. Crabapples cranky limbs bowing, quaking aspen my mother used to call twinklers all flutter and sparkle, and the cottonwoods in worst shape of all, flipping their broadleaves, desperately trying to break themselves free and run.
Picking up Toni Morrison’s Beloved and loving it. Wondering how I’ve picked up the books in this pattern, Faulkner, Marquez, Joyce, Virginia Woolf. Wondering if I can’t find a story, write a story that suits my own writing style and work at it, simply allow it to happen.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology