Spinning Plates with Arthritic Hands

The circus acts of being a writer are all swiftly breaking down. The man spinning plates on spindles is dropping more and more of the cheap white circus plates. They, of course, are made of plastic so they cannot break. Arthritis keeps me from performing the simple juggling tasks of using the keyboard, erasing and retyping the mistakes, and formatting the pages and reformatting the pages when the computer fails to save those details.

And as things continue to break down, I have to notice the circus tents of being a writer have lost more than half of their population of clowns. It worries me when there is less laughter than moans and tears and heavy sighs. The ideas are still coming fast and furious. But they are not getting transformed into paragraphs and chapters.

So, I’m still trying. The words are coming slower. But they are still coming.

I am never going to be a famous writer. My family hasn’t even read my stories.

Time is running out. The elephants are starting to take down the big top tents.

The circus of being a writer is shutting down.