It appears that the sadness I'm feeling has stirred my creative mind. I first starting writing as a way of pulling myself out the depression that grabs me at times and tries to pull me under, and so the same happened today.
I won't tell you what the new twist is in the New Orleans story, but I think it's a good one.
I've been writing this afternoon, and it feels good, or at least it lets me forget about how empty the house feels, about how no one is waking me up so that I'll move enough so she can lay her head on my shoulder, about how when I put the canned cat food down, there's no need to put the empty can on the floor because, unlike Pye, BlackBeary doesn't like to lick the dregs of gravy from the can. I love BlackBeary very much. She is my rescue kitty. I found her on a busy Dallas street and took her home when she was no more than a month old, but she's aloof, unlike Pye who was needy and demanding, and loving all at the same time.
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