Morning abolition are infantile more pleasureful when the act ends with a cup of coffee. Even if the resulting mug of Joe is morning mud, there remains a mental picture of pleasure in the form of milk, coffee beans, and sugar spiked water.Caffeine visions danced like sugar plumbs in my wandering mind as I contemplated my current row with writer’s block. Wordless hours have turned into wordless days, turned into wordless months, and I turned to word filled pages of a writer’s workshop book.
Pressed between the covers of that book, I found a tale of many would-be writers who are not unlike myself. Strapped to the hilt with ideas but not a story to see. Plot lines not plotted and climaxes obscured. We can’t seem to see the story from the trees.