I’m sitting at my desk, in my cold, drafty bedroom, just staring at my laptop.
My mind is a blank slate.
I finally have the house to myself after nearly a week of my son being home with pneumonia.
And I can’t think of a darn thing.
There are other things that I should be doing.
Such as laundry or balancing the check book or putting dinner in the slow cooker.
No, what I want is to write.