Commit, like Françoise, to those two precious hours per day. Perhaps in the morning (the celestial hour)...to the writing of Flora. That seemingly never-ending-never-beginning "novel"idea of a novel.
Listen to the voices of my head, the questions I ask and demand, the sound of anguish, gall repugnance, rain against the house, take it all in, soaking my soul, pouring out of my eyes--down my eyelashes. I won't cry. I will pretend not to miss.
