“Move over!” “YOU move over!” “I was here first!”
Ah, September in the herb garden. The madding crowd.
Yesterday I ran away to the library. I had to write. More specifically, I had to tweak something I’d written a while ago. Just tweaks — nothing to it, yes? My writer’s brain was this herb corner: crowded and madding. The words pushed and shoved. I wrote and wrote. And crossed out and crossed out.
After an hour, I had twenty-eight words that possibly maybe perhaps were the right ones. Why, with such thick growth, is there such a meager, tentative harvest?