Apples
A storm came through a little bit ago. There was a lot of wind, but nothing serious. The only thing it did was demolish a gnarly old apple tree and knock a trillion or so apples on the ground.
So I spent about an hour this hot and humid afternoon picking up half-rotten apples and throwing them into the compost.
I’d finally clear one patch of grass, look over and there would be another apple patch. Clear that one, move a branch, more apples. Throw those in the bucket and one would fall out of the tree.
I’ve never stared at a piece of fruit with that much contempt before. I wanted that apple to burst into flames. And I get to look forward to more apples tomorrow.
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But that’s beside the point. I spent most of this morning writing on the five work-in-progress chapters I have right now.
I work on one for a while. I get mad at it so I shoot off to another one. I finish it, start another. I stare at that one scene I can’t figure out how to write. I threaten it with its very life and still it refuses to write itself.
Yet I dangle the carrot in front of my own nose. Someday, this seemingly endless list will be complete and I can move on to another; but at least I will have finally accomplished an ending. And it will probably be better than apple-dirt.
AKA: I’m tired and I ran out of ideas today.
