Dramatic title. It's not raining THAT hard. True, it woke me up a couple of times in the night,pounding on the roof, but I'm not sending out an SOS for an ark just yet.
Winter in Georgia means rain. Cold rain. Sometimes it tiptoes sometimes it screams. Mostly, it just washes away your shiny shoes and follows you into the house, laughing with its companions Dirt and Fallen Leaf.
Ideas are like that too. They sometimes pour, they sometimes trickle. Sometimes we have to squeeze hard just to get a drop. And sometimes they wake you with a rat-a-tat-tat on the forehead.
This morning I woke up with plot thick on my tongue. A character I'd not thought of in years was hanging out in my bedroom, making himself comfortable on the ugly floral chair in the corner.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, hushed, trying not to wake my husband.
"Don't know." He grinned, his lopsided fourteen year old grin.
"I'm not ready for you." I argued, glancing at the clock and grimmacing: it was almost seven.
Again he shrugged and started picking at my jacket I'd flung over the arm the night before.
We stared at each other for a few seconds, seconds during which my cat began to loudly declare it was time for breakfast.
"Maybe you need me." He said.
"No way. I don't need you. I have my hands full with that gosh darned trilogy. You know that."
"Maybe you need to give it a rest. Come on," he smiled as only an awkward fourteen year old boy can, "give me a chance! Give us a chance. We might be just what you need." He took off his glasses, wiped them on his faded blue sweater, put them back on. "You're in a funk, you know."
"I know that," I started to get back in the bed, then paused. "I know." My shoulders slumped. "You really think wrestling you four will get me out of it?"
"The funk? Dunno. But it's worth a shot. You look tired."
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