Inside the happy sink of book making

Chanticleer Garden often appears on this blog–in photographs, in stories, in reminisces.  Today it is here thanks to the imagination of my husband, who took a photograph of the garden years ago then invented his own version.  It's an old image, a sketch image, something I found in my files just today, when I was looking for a quote I've tucked away somewhere—words I find I need about ruins.



My head is full of a book I'm writing.  I feel all verve-y and alive, terribly attached to the notion of putting all these thoughts about memoir making down.  I stand on one rung of a ladder, pulling myself up.  I peer over the hedge of what I've written already and think, But, oh.  There is so much more.



I dangle.  I stretch.



Meanwhile, I read the work of the extraordinary Patricia McCormick.  I will have something to say about her supreme talents tomorrow. 


Until tomorrow, then.