I have a tough scene to write, and it’s coming hard. That’s why my fingers betrayed me and I’m over here in the blog compose screen, instead of crafting intense, deathless prose.
Sitting here at the table in the RV, I’m watching the snowflakes come down. The towering peaks are lost in the white out, but there is no accumulation here. The flakes melt as soon as they hit. Behind me, there are three elk that have wandered down into Estes Park, collecting gawkers with heavy coats and point and shoot digital cameras.
I’ve fired up our erratic furnace. Half the time I have to go outside and flip a switch to get it to come on, hardly my favorite way to enjoy comfortable warmth of a roaring heater on a cold, snowing afternoon. Up on the RV’s TV screen, Frontrow is cycling through my music in an effort to get me in the writing mood.
No help for it. I guess the only way to make those words come is to flip back to the document screen and force them out, one keystroke at a time. I’ll see you later.