It’s a strange thing for a writer not to have much to say, but I’m in that kind of a mood this morning. Maybe it’s the incongruence of above-80 degree temperatures on the first day of fall. Maybe it’s the annoyance that my vocabulary is apparently larger than my spellcheck’s, so I’m double-guessing the existence of words like “incongruence,” which spellcheck swears is not a thing.
Maybe it’s because I’d rather vanish into a world that doesn’t exist than hang out in the one that does, at least for the time-being. The one that does has gotten very, very ugly.
But even writers, sometimes, don’t feel like saying much. Even writers, sometimes, feel disconnected from words.
No need to check WebMD. It’s not a permanent condition.
For more on my thoughts about Charlottesville and rising bigotry, please read An Open Letter to My Friends of Color.
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