|Behind the screen, looking for Spring, in my room at Ragdale|
It…may…be…on…it’s…way. Spring, of course! There’s so much slush outside my window, I can hear people wading on the walks linking the buildings. Yesterday it was so warm I peeled my sweater off. Next, The Harper’s Anthology of Poetry propped open the French Doors to my window. Today it’s cooler, but not Polar Vortex cold.
I completed the first draft of an essay I’d been trying to cobble together for a year yesterday. Despite the warmth, a slight headache trying to bust out, and the smell of Linda’s cooking below my room, I toughed it out all the way to the triple hashtags I still end a story with despite the demise of my journalism writing. Stories and books end with The End. I think that’s sweet, but like editing as I write, I can’t get myself totally out of my marketing head yet to “just write” an essay versus an article.
But, like all the slush on the paths around the Ragdale buildings, that, too, will pass. “Do I dare?” is the bubble thought popped open above my head as I so want to link the blossoming spring with my new writing endeavors. Nope. Metaphors work great in hindsight, plus I don’t dare jinx all this hard work.
Still, wouldn’t it be nice if Ragdale were the last slush pile Jan Stone ever rested on?