“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”~Ernest Hemingway
The chair supports my back as cool air dances around my feet. The balls of my feet touch the carpet. Cat is brushing by my legs. The film The Fuzzy Pink Nightgown is softy talking in the background as the refrigerator motor clicks on. A helicopter is flying overhead and I see a big white van pass by the computer room window.
I can hear the major streets, which we live between, filled with fast moving cars. It sounds as loud as Niagara Falls. My heart is beating softly.
I taste breakfast on my tongue and desire another cup of coffee. Now I hear the quiet as the bees work outside and as the breaks from the trash truck squeak. Time for a cup of coffee and to powder my nose. (10:50 AM)
Jane Russell’s beauty mixes well with her clever ways. She has taken off the blonde wig to reveal her true brunette self instead of the sex-pot she was falsely portraying: A sip of coffee. I am thinking of renewing my WordPress account.
I am finishing up my second year. I have over 500 posts on this site. I hear the echoing laughter from professional editors and writers that think what I am doing here sucks. I fight this every day. I know now that a writer writes!! I am addictively sincere in my efforts.
Writing is a cause to be vulnerable. Yes, every day we write here on WordPress opening our hearts and minds to be read and judged by others; here and now, I know, it is all about the story. (11:11 AM)
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