The weather's warming up, the crape myrtles are starting to bloom, and I have what must be a seasonal bout of itchy fingers. It's as though when the world around me starts to shake off its winter stillness, my writing self senses the thaw and reaches eagerly for a rushing snowmelt of ideas. Which, alas, this year seems to be lacking. Not that my writing self cares. It wants to write. And write. And write. And write. The sense of readiness, of delighted anticipation, is wonderful, but without words to channel, I can't help feeling a little hollow. Maybe I can play with silly, pointless story threads, or silly, pointless journal entries, without worrying for once just how or where those threads will develop.

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