“Writer at work” is it, all right. I need to write, but I don’t really feel like it, so I’ve been playing around with my breadmaking entries. (Writing, true, but escapism in reality.)

So here I am in the theory that if I force myself get started, I’ll get going and create something. Kind of like starting a run just because you have to, but ending up on a runner’s high after you get going. Is there such thing as a writer’s high?


DD and I walked to the store/post-office today, and I wore my ice cleats.

Quickly came the clicking of the cleats.
The clicking of the cleats quickened.
The clicking cleats came quickly.
The clicking cleats quickened behind him.
Came now the clicking of the cleats.
As the clicking of the cleats quickened, so did the beating of his heart.

…The clicking of the cleats stopped…
(Theme from Beethoven’s Fifth….duh-duh, duh…duuuuuh)

We were having a little silly time.

I’d like to write a story about a violin, exploring the themes of talent, passion, art. But other than that, I have no ideas.

OK. Enough words. It was not a writer’s high, but I made myself put words into sentences. Good enough for the way I feel today.