What A Writer Does With Dirt
…this is what a writer does when she cannot think of a single, blasted idea to write about for her next book to save her own silly life and she orders eight cubic yards of dirt and stone to stack in her garden and as she hauls and lifts she mutters to herself that she should have grown up to be a witch or a UFO chaser or perhaps a cat walker or a circus clown because she is clearly more fit for those jobs than she is for writing and then she sits down after hauling all that garden dirt and writes a post with no grammar and this just proves what a nut-case odd duck she is and perhaps it is time to move to that remote cabin in the woods and talk and sing only to deer or friendly raccoon because an idea for her next story just won’t come…
