How is that possible, considering how much time I've devoted to it over the years?
What's happened to keep me from writing can be a long story or a short one, or something in between.
So today, a beautiful spring day, with daffodils blooming in my yard, and a pair of ducks nesting in my pond, I've come to one of my very favorite spots to write.
I'm not sure why, but the vibes at Dottie's just make me feel like I can be a real writer and write and write and write and write. It might be because of the funky furniture and rugs and the tin ceiling painted white and the buffed brick walls and all the characters who sit here reading or writing or texting or talking or just staring at their phones. The conversations and the music drone on overhead and I sit here and sink into it. And despite the noise, I can think.
Dottie's, by the way, is on the corner of North and Maplewood in Pittsfield, MA. If you are ever in this neck of the woods, give it a try.
OK, so where was I in this endless tome I call Sister Mysteries?
Sister Renata had escaped, and she was on the run. The nun was out of food and short on water, and dizzy with fatigue and hunger.
Stay tuned, the chapter is almost done...