When I struggle with words and writing, which happens all too frequently, it is as if my characters are suspended, waiting for me to return, like friends patiently resting for lunch at our favorite diner.
Work on my epic novel, which continues to lack a titular title, slowed to a mental drip months ago. Rewrites. Are. Not. Simple.
I'm trying to finish another short story before my mind is dragged, willingly or unwillingly, back into world of renegade trees, sleepwalkers, and a bunch of crazies. Not sure what I'm going to do with my upcoming short story, it's too true. Derived from my own family's history, the tale of Aunt Pokie takes the reader back to a small town Ripley where gossip is the only necessity and lying takes on a life of its own.