Sunday Scribblings

Awhile ago, my friend Jenna alerted me to this writing prompt blog—and every Sunday since then I have forgotten about it. So, this was the first Sunday I was actually going to do a Sunday Sribbling… and I found out that there is no prompt this week! (The link is in the list on the right of the screen—somehow, Blogger has decided to hide the “link” part of the post creation screen, and I cannot figure out how to make this easy for you.) Thus, what follows is my freewrite to the idea of “sorry, no prompt this week.”


So sorry, self, there is nothing to prompt you to write today. Nothing to wake you up in the dead of night and whisper, “write me,” loud enough to tug you out of your cozy cocoon of cotton. Nothing to insist that you stumble to your computer and work in the nightlight of the fluorescent monitor, fingers tip-tip-tapping, louder and more rhythmic than the bugs against the window screen.

(Sometimes, when I’m bored and writing at the same time, I will use music with a good bass, typing to the beat of the dance.)

This morning, there is nothing to de-fog the morning pre-coffee cloud of non-thought, which is different from the non-thinking described by Zen masters. Nothing black-and-white, but maybe something full of light—the golden of the sun through wooden slats, the creamy vanilla taste of good coffee, the syncopated staccato of morning birds, and the cat’s clawed paw against your cheek: “wake up. pet me. write me. don’t forget me.”

Nothing to prompt me but my imagination, assigning meaning to small moments. Which is as it should be.