Back to water, the river. Back to a writing project started last fall that became side-tracked. A river trip, a woman trying to get her life back together. The people she meets; who’s being real, who is hiding something? Does river have its own time outside of "real time"?
Mile after mile she watches the Mississippi flow, and rush together at confluence points, merging into an ocean of a river of the Lower Mississippi. Mile after mile, incident after incident. The story becomes like a fresh water pearl; start with an invader, a parasite, then cover it over, layer by layer of lustrous protection.
Now, to find the pearls and string them together…
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Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.
~ Norman Fitzroy Maclean