It isn’t writer’s block because there are no end of stories swirling in the brain. It’s possibly because of heat made worse by humidity — Monsoons tormenting off in the distance — and a little bit of sleepless night.
Ten times ten — one hundred things were written today but none could find itself.
There was one about dogs and boys and another about dogs and boys but in completely unrelated ways — even this won’t come out right. One was that dogs seem like boys and cats like girls and the other was about a boy who hid some puppies and liked to pull wings off flying things and likely became a serial killer. Lots of dogs and cats and puppies and pigs, but none were willing to fulfill their end of the bargain. I especially liked the tales about Sambo and her puppies.
So that’s it for today. The writer is exhausted and wondering if anyone cares anyway — not that it matters one iota because, as it is, someone who likes to write must write whether anyone wants to hear or not.
Ten times ten is still one hundred. Thank God for maths at least.
Just so you know, yesterday was edited to death and might be fun to read again?? Seems much improved to the writer.