IonaHandcraftedJournals

Inkwell

As I type this, my Bug is nudging my right arm, hoping I’ll stop and scratch her always-needing-scratches head. It’s sort of like trying to type with an obsessive piano teacher smacking my wrists upward. “Keep your wrists up!” I can remember Mrs. Mickelson saying. Maybe Bug was a piano teacher before she became a golden retriever.

I’m not sure if it works like that, but I know a fair number of teachers who deserve a spell of life as a golden retriever — being adored and loved in between naps, big bowls of food and treats. Maybe I deserve a next life as a golden retriever — I’m not sure I could manage the constant stream of love and play they seem to demand, though. Plus – no thumbs or vocal chords – so the words I love would have to rest that lifetime, too.

For all of my life, words have been my saving grace and my solace. I wrap myself in them. They keep me warm, cool me off, offer springs of inspiration and fathoms deep in which to bury the dead (figuratively speaking, of course). I’ll write about whatever is in front of me at the moment – and sometimes, I’ll write about writing, too. So, please pull up a chair, put your favorite beverage in the container of your choice, and kick back and join me as I Go Write Through It.

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