I am seriously, seriously ready for the heatwave to end. It's sucking every ounce of creativity out of my head. I would rather read someone else's words than write my own. Pity that it doesn't work that way, huh?
But it's Monday, start of a new week and hopefully things will be somewhat cooler. Okay, they're not yet as it's 102 at 11am, but there's always wishful thinking.
I know I've seen this addressed on other blogs, but I'm going to bring it up too. Why is it that, when you *must* work on one project, your brain insists on coming up with a dozen others that would be better/more entertaining/more fun? What sadistic little splinter of our minds does that to us writers?
Why does "us writers" look wrong?
On to the interesting part!
I remembered days like the one displayed on the screen, as a child. Days when the heat shimmered up off the Serenghetti like waves of water passing over my eyes. When the sun was a necessary part of life and we played beneath it, taking for granted that it would always be there. Before the days of the bunkers and cold meat in tins.