Every day, I drive to work. My commute takes me by the airport on Fleur Drive. It’s a pleasant enough routine. Usually, I’m in a trance listening to the radio or my music. When the weather’s in between scorching and freezing, I keep the windows open enough to breathe.
Near the end of my commute is a city park. Trees tower overhead. They’re filled with blackbirds in the fall. Swarms of the birds fly around like a blanket. And, right as I exit into downtown I can see the river. There’s a kind of crude dam that tells me whether the river is up or down. After spring rains, the water drowns out the damn. I can’t even tell where it is. But, when the river lowers, there it is, a line cutting across the water.
That same river flows downstream to the place where I used to catch fish with my grandpa and cousin. Grandpa Dick had land below Redrock, and we used to catch flathead and pike there. It’s like a faraway fairy tale now.
I pass by that river every day. I take it for granted. Just like I take other things for granted — like my writing. Life gets busy, I tell myself. Writing will come. It’s as though I’m waiting for some driftwood to come along and do the work for me. Something that will whittle itself into the writing I pretend I can do.
That driftwood’s never coming, is it? I think I’ll stop waiting, and hang out here for a while.
Welcome to my blog. This is my writing journal. I’ll share writing about my life, and I’ll create some fiction. Heaven forbid the two ever get confused.