chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

trying to write…3

She sat at her desk—her park bench—waiting. The words would be along, sooner or later, if she was patient. If she showed the right signs, the willingness, the readiness, the availability. She just needed to be there to receive them, to transmit them, when the words arrived. She never understood how they would find her, or recognize her, or choose her—why they wouldn’t stop for another writer and leave her mute.

She wasn’t patient, though. She fidgeted. She stared out the window, looked at the contours of the veins on the back of her hands. She drank coffee and thought about the day’s work, the weekend, unfinished projects.

Where were the words? How would she recognize them? What if they were disguised? Showed up looking like a phone conversation or a letter? She needed a lure, a word-pheromone. But of course this was the pheromone, she thought. This sitting, pecking at the keys, leaving a trail of crumbs and bits that the words could follow: a lifeline of phrases, sentences, paragraphs to sustain the words as they found their way back to her.

      ~ trying to write…4

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