I am congested.

With words.

It’s not that I don’t have time to write. It’s that the time I have is squeezed into the corners around the gigantic furniture of my life.

Every day on my drive to work or during moments of coffee and email I fantasize about a simple life where work is done with your hands and you have a product to show for it. I want to make shoes. I want to sew clothes. I want to garden and cook a pot roast.

I have never done any of these things, and I would probably hate them.

But I fantasize anyway.

I’m in a small town with a skyline made of sky, not buildings. Open fields. A running dog. A simple home with milk in the fridge and a rocking chair patio.

I live simply on little money. No Hollywood rent.

No internet.

Books. And time to think. And time to write.

But what will I write about without the chaos? Can I do a Sex & the City column from Mayberry?  

I am not a nature writer. I need a homeless drunk trying to sell me socks. I need a taco stand that doubles as a church.

This gentle breeze is nice, but it lacks something.

My fantasy has become too complicated.

I’ll save it for later. Maybe I'll think about it on the drive to work tomorrow or during a staff meeting.

For now, I have a party to get to.