A whole week goes by, not even in a flash, and I think about writing but I don't. I read a book, and then another, and I nap, or play a computer game or clean or run errands. I cleaned the fish tank and bought fish. I picked up the kids from the swimming pool. I bought new late-summer flowers for the pots and dead-headed the baby roses. I even went for a couple of walks and I updated my books-to-buy list and my library inventory and I talked to my mom and wrote emails and went to sushi night, but I didn't come home and write about it. It's all in there somewhere. But it's not trying to get out.
disappointed 
