You have no idea how many drafts I've begun and not finished here at the Cell. I'm sorry. I'm sucking lately. I just don't have time. Isn't that lame? But seriously, I don't.
Driving in the car I've had a million moments of clarity and even an epiphany or two... all things I immediately wanted to blog. "I've gotta write this down," I'd say to myself while zooming down the interstate at 70 mph. "This is pull-over worthy!" And something monumental would happen, like a good song on the radio, and all was forgotten by the time the chorus rolled around.
It's like that lately.
I know you guys are sick of hearing about the confounded book I'm writing. I've been finished probably 50 times. I've been done with the edits as many times. Buuuut... Guess what. I'm editing again. Checking citations, leaving no t's uncrossed, no i's undotted. People believe in me and have lent their names to this monster; I can't let them down now. It's time consuming, work intensive... a love affair complete and total.
I'm going to shout for joy when I'm done... really, really done. And in the afterglow, when I realize what it means for me and Tennessee, I'll dissolve, a bruised forget-me-not, in a puddle on the floor. But I don't want to think of that now. I still have something. I'm still doing something. The embrace lingers for a moment more. "I love you, I love you..."
I'm no fool. I know I'm grabbing at straws. But straws are all I have, and so I weave them through my fingers. I'm falling apart, you know, so I lace myself up with the silk of time and love and all the words I've spent.