I'm terribly sorry for my negligence. It is summer and there are living things everywhere. Blond skinny ones running through my house, pounding up and down the stairs, removing things from closets and leaving them on the floor. Green thirsty ones surrounding me on all sides, wilting or producing fruit by turns. Even the black and white and furry one trips me in his fear (wind makes him crazy). And my novel lives, breathes and demands attention. Unlike those other ones, it has no color. Clear for the most part, except for all the themes and characters that are trapped within it, obscuring a view to the other side. It just sort of floats in front me making everything sort of difficult to accomplish.
As Always (hoping you understand),