There's something therapeutic about digging a plot. Not much mind power is needed in the process; only enough to keep me working in a methodical way, identify the things that emerge on the prongs of my fork and sort them into heaps or, in the case of worms, put them in a safer patch of soil.
Meanwhile, all kinds of amazing ideas whizz around my brain. I create wonderful letters to friends, compose moving appeals, dazzling film reviews and music critiques and dream up ideas for new felting projects. Unfortunately, by the time I get my notebook out, some of the wonderful ideas are just faded fragments. Maybe I should use a dictaphone instead?
The Indignity of Getting a Ticket
17 hours ago