The inside of a mouth

Oh these poor wonderful people that have to deal with me right now. Writing is like watching a movie, where you sit in one spot, and then laugh, and then cry, and then shout something out. Except that there is pre-existing narrative to legitimize these odd behaviors.

I have a crying jag, I eat an enchilada, I'm happy as a clam.

And my handsome husband and delightful writing partner act as if this is perfectly normal. Perhaps taking on a project of this size when on extra-hormone high alert should come with some kind of a warning, not for me but for those around me.

My daughter took this photograph of the inside of her mouth, and was very happy with the result. She got a digital camera from her Mama Lou and is more of the abstract artist than I gave her credit for being. My writing right now reminds me of this picture. It's pinking up, but it doesn't really have a clear shape and purpose.