It feels like a writing day. Well, actually, it’s closer to what I like to call a “percolating day.” Usually, they come in twos or threes and then comes a writing day. In either case, it’s a good thing—aside from these random blog entries, I haven’t really had any writing days for a good month.
On a percolating day, it’s all about the internal brew. It starts with a welcome twinge of “I wonder if these storiessoundspictures in my head might really go together?” Things often bubble over, but usually not fully formed. Even more often, one seemingly perfect phrase will keep bubbling out, over and over, refusing to be rearranged and begging to be linked into something… and it may take the rest of the week to figure out what to do with it.
Today I’ve been plugged into percolation mode from a conversation over dinner last night. Now that it’s all over and settled, Fox told us about his week in jury duty. “We wanted more,” he kept saying. “Where was the screwdriver? And the daughter? Where was the neighbor?”
I have no idea why that stuck. But the element is heating and the sediment is rising.