Tomorrow, from 11am - 1:30pm, the phone may ring, the dog may bark, my stomach may growl, but I vow not to respond. Close the blinds, move the clutter out of my line of vision, put a new ink cartridge in the printer and gather the summer notebooks. The poems and stories scrawled therein will come forth. It's time to type 'em up and take a good look because, actually, they are haunting me.
I dreamt of the gnarly scrub pines of Cape Cod. "Finish me," the tallest pine whispers, reminding me of the quiet hour spent pondering his nightmarish shape and the abundance of life at home in his old, weathered arms. "Finish my story," he calls again. "You knew I was trying to find the words", I acknowledged in my dream voice. This goes on, and, being that it's a dream, the conversation becomes more than ridiculous - it becomes ridiculouser.
The stories want to get out of the Harriet the Spy composition book I carried around all summer. Their days will probably play out as a document in a folder titled, 'Writing', but they'll have a title and legibility. That's all I can promise. So, please, no more whining in my sleep; I'll let you out tomorrow!
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