I envy those writers who can spin a beautifully flowing tale in just stolen
moments. Fifteen minutes here, an hour there, a spattering of lines on a paper
napkin and voilà! A publishable story appears like magic.
I am not that kind of writer.
If the last few weeks of reconstruction mayhem have taught me nothing
else, it is that. I’ve got to have at least two hour stretches of uninterrupted
authoring for my work to be worth a darn thing.
These self-realizations sting, and I don’t appreciate them. Just
saying.
Until the Friday update…
Chloe
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