And So It Begins: Christmas Book Panic!

The fish bit at and then ignored the little dog-paddler, flipping and flopping its way to a blade of grass.  I watched it climb up to the top, sun for a moment, then climb down again, before flying off.

Only when I got home did I realize it must have been one of those green bees I've seen before at the lake.  (Or maybe a green bee fly. At my distance and with my camera's resolution, it's hard to tell.)

What I could tell, though, was that those fish were fishing -- hunting for a tidbit to tide them over.

Every year at about this time, I start fishing, too.  Usually I sense a tug of an inchoate idea pretty quickly; usually I've felt it by now.  But not this year.  I am bare, or nearly so, like the trees beyond the small fish.

Panic is starting to settle in: Just what the heck will I write about this year?  Why in the world did I start a Christmas book tradition anyway?  Maybe this is the year to end that tradition!

Then reason speaks: No, I can't do that.  I just have to wait for the right bait to come my way.

Hmm . . . .

Previous Christmas book posts: The Manifesto of Done; Exhaustion; The First Christmas Book; The Christmas Book, Part II; Creative Energy; The Christmas Book