I’ve been in search of focus, calm, a quiet core of creativity and peace. However, like this rose blown about in the wind, the goal eludes me. The camera strives to focus, but can only capture pieces of clarity.
There is light.
I’ve been finding old stories, pieces of unfinished poetry, barely-decipherable notes on odd scraps of paper towel or restaurant napkins or torn half-sheets from spiral-bound notebooks.
After long weeks and months of literary drought, ideas are coming, rain to parched ground.
No final decision has been made, but perhaps it is time to set aside editing for others, and write. Only write. Write until the dreams come true.