Six years ago, on a warm October night, I lay in my bed in a century-old house, tossing and turning. Work, my 30th birthday trip to Croatia and my cloudy future in Atlanta all jockeyed for space in my mind. Yet, the only thing which kept repeating were the words “fumbling, stumbling, mumbling …” as my first night in Croatia played out on repeat in my head.
I need to write this shit down while it is in my head.
As I writer, I know all too well how quickly things write themselves in my ever-churning mind. The words appear, I can see them, feel them. I promise myself these golden sentences weaving into a story will remain in my head in the morning, and yet, they never do. Although I vaguely remember the prose which was rampant, floating in my gray matter the night before, they rarely are reproduced.