Sitting outside the coffee shop on one of the first Spring days of Texas, I look up to admire the flowers on the Bradford Pear trees that surround me. The fragrance is strong, and I know only because every Spring the Bradford Pear trees announce their blooming -- their awakening, their survival over another winter -- with a strong odour; today I cannot perceive it for the smell wafting this way from the steakhouse nearby.
Meeting with the writers' group inspires me to write more routinely; not anything as strict as arising by four o'clock in the morning, or constraining myself to one thousand words per day. Simply jotting something down often will suffice.
My errands this morning put me here, at our meeting spot, about ten minutes earlier than I had thought, so I whipped out my little notebook, which I carry with me everywhere, to write these few words. My few words may not seem like much, but writing them does serve as practice. I may even read this to my dear fellow writers.
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