I’ve taken to drinking coffee around dusk. It has been years since I tried that, and maybe never since I did it a couple days in a row. Why now? I’m not at all sure. Of course, it’s a poor man’s brew, the morning grounds recycled for another go, tasting tonight vaguely of cigarettes. I have no idea why. Never have I smoked and the last time around here someone did was when our house was being painted, and the helper helped herself to a good pack while she… helped.
Better not to ask the source of that taste, and value the smokey brew for what it is, or what it does, or at least for what one think it should do which is a lot more than it actually seems to have done. Try it again, that sentence did in fact make sense.
The moon is near full, coyotes howl and yelp from a valley quite nearby, and a heavy bladed helicopter flies low overhead.
I’m at the point now where whether I become a real writer is seemingly up to me. Can I pull off a well turned phrase, weave a cogent tale with endearing and authentic characters? I don’t know. I realize my own limitations in perspective, how my imagination seems unable to translate well. Or, I find my own interests and tendencies not matching up to what others would seek.
I write quick, can get words down with hardly any time or effort, but then shaping those into something which transcends the average is the trick. And it is my prayer that inspiration would bite in a way it hasn’t bitten before. Either I’m going to come out of this a brilliant writer, or I’m going to crawl back down the hill seeking restoration for a misplaced self.
And folks I know try to interest me in gambling for a couple of dollars with some printed cards. A life, an existence. Making it or falling flat. Those are high stakes. The game is indeed on, and I’m all-in.