Excuses are all I have to offer for this post, really. Since the new year dawned, I've been writing less than usual. I finally started a short story I've had rolling around my head for about a year and got 1,700 words to it, but I haven't picked it up since that first burst of creativity. I was just complaining to my writing group that most of my inspiration seems to strike me at awfully inconvenient times, most often when I'm driving down the highway on the way home from work, with no way to record the images attempting to sear my brain and prod me into action. I promise myself I'll write what I can remember of it when I get home, but other things inevitably come first--cooking food, eating food, etc. It seems I'm rarely inspired when I'm at home or anywhere near paper or pen or computer in general.
Aside from that one unfinished short story, I have the first draft of a very short poem I wrote today. I'm really rather fond of it because it began from one of those stark images that impressed itself upon me. Fortunately, I was in a place to set to writing immediately when that happened.
I have another image in my brain still half floating around, a ghost of what it was when it first appeared, as I was driving down Highway 169. Perhaps it's fitting. I think it was supposed to be about things lost, things forgotten, fog, mist, the past.
