It takes a special kind of sick to be a writer

This post is about being a writer, but it reminded me of someone I lost 3 years ago, bringing her love alive in my mind again.

Another blogger liked this post today and made a comment. The post was written August 2013, when my Chelsaddog was still a part of my Earthly life. His comment helped me remember her texturous fur, and how happy she made a room feel just by being in it.

Writer’s need love, too. I’m thankful for the reminder and thought new readers might enjoy reading this post. 🙂

Two on a Rant

Image Doing it the
hard way.

As I sit through the 3am toothache with Viszla mutt at my feet, I contemplate a couple of replies I’ve written on other peoples blogs within the past few days. Yes, I’m waiting for the sleep fairy called Ibuprofen to work.

I love writing my way through life. It gave me back my humor, the discovery of thought, feeling, scents and sights I’ll not see again except through the written word. To write is to breathe life into words. To keep the words inside you is as deadly to the soul as constipation is to the body. From my perspective, the dust of life constantly accumulates, which requires constant cleansing of the soul. Maybe I should draw a circle on my computer and write next to it in elegant cursive, “The enema tube goes here?”

In one dismal writing course I endured, the instructor said–with…

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