Uh oh, she's writing about writing again
Every evening when I sit down next to the window to write, the first thing I think to write down is something about the cicadas singing. They're loud. They're the thing I notice.
No, I wrote about the cicadas two days ago.
I could tell you about blueberry hibiscus sparkling water. I could tell you about white chocolate covered pretzels. I could tell you about how I'm cuddled under a fleece blanket even though it's too hot to be cuddled under a fleece blanket.
I could tell you about anxiety medications. I could tell you about yearning. I could tell you about how I sucked at writing music on Tuesday but then got better again on Wednesday.
I don't know.
None of these are leading anywhere. Sometimes when I'm writing, I open a door and a million other thoughts come pouring out. But right now I'm just finding empty rooms.
Ah, well.
...
I was hoping that after that, some brilliant idea would come to me and I could write something like, "but wait, here's a thought!" and launch into some brilliant, beautiful prose about something that would end up working its way into your heart and mind, sticking with you for days after you read it. But apparently that's not how it works.
At least I tried.
Hey, do hear that? The cicadas are singing. I love that sound. It reminds me of warm breezy summer nights, of chasing fireflies, of starry skies and a full moon, of endless possibilities.