For the past few days I haven't had time to put fingers to keyboard for either writing here or anywhere. Time has been better spent with family sharing memories. We made the most of a reunion that was missing a most beloved person. We had boiled shrimp from his recipe and drank sparkling wine. Our tribute to him and how wonderful he made family gatherings. I abstained from the wine. Anything that causes my emotions to depress is something to avoid.
Strangely, although I have discussed the plot of the novel with Phill, I have been unable to write it. My mind, though full, is quiet. The neurons are holding onto their electrical impulses keeping me from forming sentences of description or dialog. Last night I attempted to ignore the quietness and write, but after only 100 words I surrendered.
I will try again tonight. It is imperative that I write through the quietness. Or is it emptiness that reflects how we all feel without him?