There is snot on my keyboard.
It’s not my snot. It’s imperative that you know that. There are many things that the snot is (for example, green, sticky, and copious), but I’m more concerned about what it is not. (Mine.)
See, my tiny, precious son has a cold that is neither tiny nor precious, and out of all of the places in the world he could have chosen to sneeze, he settled on my keyboard. This is possibly a sign of love, but more likely a sign that autumn is upon us.
I live for fall. I love everything about it — the juxtaposition of the changing leaves against a pre-storm sky, the tacky Halloween decorations on my neighbor’s lawn, the sweaters and fruit pies and rotting leaves underfoot. Most of all, I love the overwhelmingly insistent urge to write that needles under my skin each September. There’s just something about chapped cheeks and nutmeg that begs for stories.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve written. I’ve lost touch with my online writing community and my half-finished novels have lost the will to become something worthwhile. But still — there’s a pumpkin on my porch and a story lying in wait beneath the rubble of real life. The seasons will keep changing, but everything else will remain the same.
There’s snot on my keyboard. It’s time to write.