So, you want to be a writer, you say. It’s a neat life living in your imagination, you say. Seems like a fun hobby. Thoughts to share with the world. You want to work in your pajamas. Wake up dreaming about exotic locales and people, you say.
Cool. But just so you know, this particular writer woke up in the wee hours this morning dreaming he was sleeping outside in a muddy pen in the rain, with chickens and a wet, smelly and cranky fox. Blow the image for you?
Yeah, someday I may have to try my hand at writing a rich and sensuous romance novel to wake up dreaming about sharing a bottle of wine with someone special on a Riviera beach or in a street-side Paris cafe. Luscious cheese, a warm croissant and enchanting conversation. Or a refreshing sea breeze in the air with laughing gulls greeting the sunrise.
Aaahh – who am I kidding? We both know that’ll never happen and the someone special in the dream would just be another frickin’ chicken anyway. I have to go. Need to write about the chickens and add them to the stories before I forget just how dreadfully bad that fox truly smelled. But yeah — I am writing all that down in my pajamas. So there’s that. At 3 a.m.
The muse sends ideas. I have no control over what they are or when they arrive. And that’s the writer’s life.
Thanks as always for visiting! — Jim (and Red!)