The ocean looked different this morning – deeper, if that’s possible. The tide was high and the clouds low, the horizon disappearing into a hazy grayness above the water. The world was monochrome – all memory and possibility seemed to hang in that mist over the waves.
I take this walk every morning – out the door and up the hill, past the beach and the sleepy houses. We are getting fitter all the time, this dog and I – we don’t saunter up the hill, we hoof it. He gets into the groove quickly – where it used to be exciting it has become routine – I doubt he notices much other than the pavement in front of him as we walk. I have no clue where his mind wanders as we walk but mine goes to places far off in that mist hanging over the ocean – to the memories and possibilities… to stories. 
I am a brilliant story teller as I walk the dog, my imagination in full gear – I weave words into fabulous prose. I dream big, my muse whispering sweet nothings in my ear as we forge our way up the hill. But all the words, all the promise, all the fabulous prose drift into that mist over the water before we reach home. Inspiration is left floating on the horizon and I find myself struggling to make sense or sentences from the magical thoughts I had while walking the dog.
I’m having a hard time taking my writing seriously these days, finding it difficult to put my thoughts on paper. This difficulty is manifesting as insecurity – I find myself questioning myself. I know the drill – the negative thought process and I go way back – I am my own biggest critic. This short blog is an attempt to acknowledge and dismiss that damned critic… set it adrift. Tomorrow I will walk the dog and bring the story home.