A smudge in a grey dressing gown. I’ve been writing, too much. If that is possible. Fourteen flash in the last two weeks. More in a collection I’m building. But I’m beginning to feel the cracks. In among the cracks, the heads of cherry blossoms, folded neat as sentences.
I’ve finished the book that took a month and a bit to read, and expect to review it shortly. When I am not a smudge sick with creativity. When I’m not pink candyfloss puffball seen torn through mist, adding up to – something. I pick up a book – Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy, and hope I can devote to it what it deserves, and that it will repay me with severe and stinging balm.
More news here when it is to be shared.