The pewter pig, my grandmother’s signatory initials etched into its belly, stares at me: You’re going to put words here, aren’t you?
Sit back in the chair, keep typing and eventually the words will present themselves.
Is it going to be one of those days?
When the words become jumbled and jangled, when they function as little more than an outpouring of a weary brain, when they appear in any order, my ability to connect their dots flitting and sparking and growing dark as I sit back in the chair, typing, telling myself that eventually the words will present themselves.
Oh, it might be one of those days.