Most are quite small and move with the gait of a soused tortoise. Avoiding these troublesome literary mites should be easy.
It’s the bigger clumps of dried up authorial imagination I’d worry about this morning. Large, menacing, and occasionally hairy these wads of uncreative fluff and thorn sure smart when they hit an unsuspecting shin. Best to keep your eyes peeled.
Of course, far wiser a course would be to absent yourself from today’s post altogether.
I haven’t a fleck of insight to share with you this mid-July morn. Not so much as a kernel of a writerly tip to impart. I’m bone dry, man.
Hence the tumbleweeds.
Tomorrow will be better and wetter, I promise.
Now, pardon me while I go check on how the muse’s rain dance is going.