strawberry rhubarb ice cream

Sometimes writing looks like this:

Sketch the scene in your head before you fall asleep.

Wake up at 2am and wonder what that patch of skin below John Watson’s left ear smells like.

Dream about a soft soft kiss.

Wake up.

Write two sentences.

Research homing. Get distracted by videos of murmurations.

Write four more.

Read some Keats poems.

Delete two, write ten.

Stare into space.

Daydream about summer as you watch the snow turn into sleet. (Lilac blooming, blood red tulips in a white vase, the crunch of watermelon, juicy tomatoes, sunshine, the smell of just cut grass, berries, fireflies at twilight, homemade peach ice cream, strawberry-rhubarb pie, sundresses, sandals, sand between my toes, the smell of the ocean)

Decide to take a bubble bath and read some Mary Oliver.