Ahso, I was making an attempt to explain what it is that brings the little thrills of pleasure to my soul when the drumming is good on Mondays. I was trying to make a picture in someone else's mind of what goes on in my brain when the rhythms are meshing and the flow is just, so very ~there~. From the vision of complete incomprehension on her face, I could tell it wasn't working. I really honestly don't know if I can do it.

I've found over the last couple of months that my creative writing skills aren't what they used to be. I used to be able to write all sort of quaint little stories that made friends laugh; stupid little things that prompted folks to suggest I write literature for kids. My sister still wants to do it, so she can illustrate… and I should. I'd love that.

Then I actually try to do it now, and the analytical, jaded 32 year old brain kicks in and jumbles me all up again. What the heck? What's so hard about writing simply, leaving out all the perfect grammar and rules about run-on sentences… Control control control. I haven't lost that in a bit too long, maybe. It'd be nice to plunge into someone else's hands a while.

Barring that, I think I'll make use of Janie's chalkboard paint. Time to write on the walls. :)

~S