Inner musings of a Wayward Writer
I sit in a bare patch in my garden, covered in dirt, the scent of soil thick in the air. A drizzle covers everything in a fine veil. Wearing nothing but a thin waterproof coat and gumboots, I hold the notebook open in my lap, my fingertips drumming on the empty page. I can’t stop …
Do you know what it feels like? Let me tell you. It’s like opening your eyes each morning, but instead of lying in bed under a dusty blanket with your head on a worn-down pillow, you’re strapped into a seat surrounded by a control panel. Only there aren’t any buttons. Just a confusing jumble of …
