Some bloggers write so beautifully, it takes my breath away…. Brava, Andrea.
It has been a summer of drifting. One day into another, sun into rain and back again. There has been no definition to the season. No meadow season. No season of tiny flying things. Not even the dreaded dog days of August. Even now, as the season turns, we drift from the hottest September day for over sixty years into impenetrable fog. And I have drifted too. There has been my job and the times in between; there has been little writing. I have no clear sense of what I’ve done with my summer. Writing is so often about trying: trying to find a story; trying to write that story in the way you have imagined it; trying to find someone to publish it. Sometimes what’s necessary is to stop trying and drift for a while.
But summer has begun to drift into autumn. The days shorten imperceptibly. It is always a surprise how…
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