These are from July 8th. From top: the Highwheeler Cafe in my hometown of Baddeck. A ticket stub from the Highwheeler. Food from a bar in Florence where I met up with some friends for a Happy Hour. Then the Lick-A-Treat (which is right next door to a fried chicken place called Lick-A-Chick, I kid you not) for ice cream, soft serve. For me, soft serve ice cream is one of those things you just have to have on a warm summer evening.
It's early - still only 7:30 am. Even though I have the day off, I got up with Adam when he went to work, and decided to spend a bit of time writing. Even though I know that I'm passionate about words, poems and images, and even though I've gotten the knack of saying "I'm a writer" to people I've just met without somehow justifying my use of the title, when it comes to actually writing, I'm as hard to pin down as a politician. "I can't take time to do that now, I've got to ___________________." Fill in the blank. Even doing the laundry is more important, so it seems, than practicing my craft.
I think it's because I feel that if I'm going to sit down and write, well, the outcome better be perfect - a complete little short story or poem must emerge in an hour. I'm "good at it", right? So why doesn't it come easily?
I need to see it more as a daily exercise. You don't run a marathon the week you start running.
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