ABSTRACT
I'm wondering if it might be a good time to make bread. The writing is not going well. Truthfully, it's not going. Perhaps the soothing action of mixing and kneading would get me back to a good place. The writing. THE WRITING. It takes on large proportions in my mind. It is not easy to write. Nor is it fun, and pleasant is not a word I would use in conjunction with writing. Yet, it is hard to relax when I'm away from the computer and my desk. I keep thinking about the stories. I dream at night about the people in the stories. I see their faces in odd places—the grocery store, on the street, sitting on a subway, lurking behind a tree or bush. They are like ghosts. But ghosts have had a life. These people are looking to me to help give them life.
