I’ve a brilliant idea—in addition to vacation hours and sick days, we need to implement art therapy days. Days wherein you’re free to while away the hours snapping photos, painting, or researching the Wild West.
OK, so that last bit may just be me . . .
You see, last weekend I dreamt of the Wild West—a little vignette, mind; but for some reason I can’t seem to shake a certain passel of misfits in the middle of a prairie.
In all honesty, the thought of me writing a western makes me laugh. I mean really.
But perhaps it makes sense. After all, the first novel I set out to write—the one I penned longhand and my grandmother typed—was a western. I grew up gazing upon row-after-row of my grandfather’s mass market paperbacks of Louis L ’Amour.
Perhaps it’s in my blood.
Or perhaps it’s a temporary diversion.
I don’t know.
What I do know, is the need to work for a living—when there are obviously more important things to do—seems criminal.
Oh, and if anything comes of that dream, y’all will be the first to know.