Scraps

I jot the images for my next novel on postcards, cocktail napkins, and 3 X 5 scraps of notebook paper. I throw the scraps in a shoebox because I am too lazy to type them into the computer.

This is the time of the year when my mind drifts more than usual. I suspect my blog will become even more like disorganized incoherent postcards.

Darn, I wish I knew how to write.

After the leaves have fallen, we return

To a plain sense of things. It is as if

We had come to an end of the imagination,

Inanimate in an inert savoir.

The Plain Sense of Things, Wallace Stevens