The weather has been capricious lately; soft sunrises drizzle into early morning gloom. The sun peeks through the clouds around noon, but she covers herself with thick and angry thunderclouds till evening descends on weak afternoon sunlight. Then the rain softly patters on windows shuttered against the night and the cycle begins again.
I watch the changing moods and respond by rumpling the covers on my bed as I scribble away in my notebook and ripping out pages and crushing them and throwing them at the wall. The outbursts of temper never help and I am slowly beginning to accept that I have to be in the mood to write, no matter how much I hate the writers' block.
A person walks by under my window, I crane to see, but it is a stranger, uninspiring and irrelevant to the quiet room in which I sit and dream. The world is shut out; none can come in and molest me, and I enjoy my happy solitude, knowing I can let the world in whenever I please.
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despite the daily hurdles and masses of criticism, the writing continues - and there is glamour in the offing
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