I have a new habit for the drive home from work – I keep the radio off and let the silence wrap itself around me. In the past I would use the drive home as a time to sing, decidedly off-key, to try and restore the energy that is sucked out of me with the dayjob. But now I find the silence makes a good transition from a crowded time to a quiet time to what I hope will be a writing time.

I’ve thought of B on and off throughout my day. He has a twang in his voice at times. I don’t know where it comes from yet I know it belongs to him. He argued with someone and he is homeless again and I don’t know why. I don’t know what will happen when I sit down to write.

A few hours later I have 200 words or maybe less. One scene that contradicts everything else I’ve said so far. One new character. One lost character. Three index cards of notes.

Plot still MIA.

I stand at the window and watch the birds feed, count the number of new poppies that have bloomed and wonder what Mr. Mac would say if he saw this yard. I should try for another scene, or at least another sentence or two or three but instead I reach for the camera hoping to catch sight of the woodpecker that has begun to visit the giant Yucca next door.

I listen for B. but all I hear is the sound of squabbling birds.

Hubby says dinner is ready.

Not a moment too soon.

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