61. Southernwriter - Profile
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Life of a Southern Writer
View all userpics Name: southernwriter Website: Red Heart Novels Location: Land of Cotton Mississippi United States Birthdate: Bio: MOVED TO http://blography-of-southern-writer.blogspot.com/
I cannot think of what to write, so I rise from my desk and go into the kitchen to fetch a cup of coffee. I open the cabinets to look for something to munch on, knowing I will find nothing, or that I will settle for something I shouldn't be eating in the first place. The cat ties knots around my ankles and bites my foot. He gets his choice of duck with wild rice, or filet mignon with smelly shrimp. He eats better than I do, but feigns indifference.
Looking out the bay window in the kitchen, I see a weed in the iris bed, and another sprouting up beside the basil, so I go out to pluck them. The herbs are crying for a drink, and rather than spend an hour mixing Miracle Gro in the watering can and lugging it out here a dozen times, I walk around to the front of the house and drag the hose back here. Knowing if I put it down it will stay here until I need it out front again, I drag it back. A robin chirps at me from the edge of the bird bath, which is nearly dry. I pull the organic stuff out of the bath and refill it, but now my hands feel slimy, and as I look down, I notice I splattered mud on my legs while I watered the garden.
I toss my clothes in the washer and go to gather those from the basket in the bedroom and add them. I grab my purse, my phone, look for my keys until I find them in the door or refrigerator, and go out to jump in the Jeep, turning the radio down because my ears are not yet used to the blast. As soon as I'm past all the places where kids and pets roam, I drive too fast. The hair I just spent an hour straightening is now a knotted mass of red tangles. At the light, I look up into any big rigs that are around, in case there's a cowboy hat up there with Fred under it. He is never there, but I've been doing it for twenty-five years and it's a hard habit to break. A song I like is on the radio now and I turn it up too loud because the Jeep is in serious need of a new tailpipe. I spend five minutes buying cigarettes and another twenty talking with the clerk who aspires to be a published poet. | |
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