There are times when writers don’t write. When they blur at the edges or crouch down or go out walking in the damp weather bent against the poles of their umbrellas. When they wait, for words or the reception of words. Or simply for a mood to lift.
I’m waiting for some words to get in from other people. For emails and news and rejections and hopefully an acceptance or two. I’m waiting for the books I’ve been reading to sink into my skin. Watching films to disturb my sleep. It’s deep into Autumn now, and the ghosts are walking in the lane and swaying in the tattered accident tape I see on old monuments, on iron railings that have half fallen in. I have writing to do, but it’s hard to manifest myself enough to type.
I am patient, even when I’m not. I scrape by, getting better at knowing the seasons each year. Waiting is also writing. Reading is also a creative art.