This evening has been different.

Than yesterday, and the day before.

Same pain.  More energy.  But weak.

I didn’t expect much when I approached today’s writing.  It felt perfunctory.

Then, I got going.  In the past, I would flail for days, anticipating a revisitation by my muse, sometime after my symptoms would inevitably recede.

I would write for days, waiting for creative insights to return.

However, today, although I still feel crappy, my mojo reappeared.  I wrote a thousand words, most destined for some place in my story.

I am excited, because these past six months, I have been writing in my journal about these episodic symptoms that set back my mind, every time.  I knew I needed to overcome these ill effects.

Somehow, I trusted that the seemingly endless weeks of deep concentration would eventually pay off.

My second post back from today, I attributed my new ability to brain-rewiring.

My book is being physically wired into my brain, by my mind.

A first-time writer has more to overcome than a published author.  Both are telling a story.  But a new author has to figure out how to tell a story, before doing so.

A nascent writer’s brain is pure potential, until the secrets of success unlock themselves from past habits of thinking.

Until everything else in life became secondary to my book, I couldn’t appropriately focus my thoughts.

Until I could focus my mind, I couldn’t envision how to achieve that first draft.

Today, I can trust in the process.  Just write every day.



Out of my head.
Got it.
Down, in some physical form.
Memory, accessed externally.
Rather than.

Solely residing in my head.
For, only a moment.
Before gone. Write thoughts, to make them.

Unless written, they remain etherial.
Essential, and missing. Unable, too.

Make points. Make jokes. Make sense.

Speaking, more primitive.
Than writing.

Stumbling, over faulty recall.
That next word. Spoken tokens, embedded in grammar.
Queued up, within the mind. Around each thought. Then.

One wanders off.
Lost again.
In the dark unconscious.
Too shy to be said.

Thoughts of Carrots Bubbling

Can’t take my mind off my crockpot creation.

Gastronomic patience.  Expecting to cook and cool.

And eat.  Glued to the scent of a recipe.

Sensation.  Enjoyment in a word.

Yesterday.  Thanksgiving’s trip.

Concluded family matters.


Babcia treading kitchen linoleum.

In darkness.  Her skidding slippers sounded.

Lonely.  And her cookbook collection.  Rearranged.

My thoughts.  A new library of culinary habits.

Never tried once until soup.

Think.  Thank.  Thunk.


On the long flight home.

A lentil.  Craving purposed my mind.

Why not?  Stew it over while writing.

Half past morning.  My favorite shop of coffee.

Googled ingredients.  For a better batch than one.

Found leaving home.


In a crumbling copy.  Laurel’s Kitchen.

Sadly for something.  Thinner than thick.


Dinner was a bowl of this.

Would I return?

Again.  Until.  Full.