It’s not that there are no words waiting to emerge from the blank page before me. Alas, there are too many words; too many thoughts; too many emotions. Most are worthy of contemplation. Few are worthy of prose.
I recently saw a clip from the 80’s hit television show, The Golden Girls. Betty White’s character, true to course, launches into some inane tale from her childhood. Estelle Getty’s character responds. “What an injustice! Hemingway ran out of stories to tell and shot himself. She just keeps on going!”
Tonight, I find myself caught somewhere between St. Olaf and The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.