Writing on the Run

     This morning I write from, and in, rainy Lorena, Texas.  Three hundred miles south of my home, it's cold to the bone, my daughter's driveway and front yard covered with water -- as are Dallas and Fort Worth -- and a good reason not to head back.  Another day of quilting with my daughter, building an Egyptian diorama with grandson, and live music this afternoon if the water recedes.  For now, a few paragraphs added to my book.  It travels with me in mind, heart and belly.
     Funny how characters can take up the back seat of your car  -- or six painted horses on the merry-go-round.  My house is filled with a couple hundred folks I've invented and breathed life into, over the years.  No wonder I escape to Texas.  Although that state, phenomenal in size, also is beginning to labor under the weight of my people and plots. 
     This morning I wrote about a bad encounter in a back alley of Memphis, and painted, white ladies of questionable repute attending the early morning funeral of a black child with a real wooden leg.
      It would be a shame if writing kept me home, pinned me down.  We penners must be portable, and able to soak up the where-we-are, the buckets of rain, and the sound of Texans when they say "Mo-o-o-onin', y'all.  Or a puddle of water that you know you drove through three days ago, but today looks fathoms deep and scary as all get-out.
     Grab a notebook.