Eight-legged writer’s block
Nothing else quite paralyzes me with fear than a
good old, big, ugly spider.
The one pictured here is a spider that sunned itself
one morning on a tree log near my potted mums.
The spider I had my husband take care of days before
was near my trash can in my home office.
“That was big,” he said, after I screamingly asked
him to hurry into the room to get the spider.
Fear
I can’t write with spiders nearby.
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