In My Underwear (or not)

So here I sit, in my tattered robe, slippers, and underwear mid-afternoon on a cold Wednesday in the midwest. A foot of snow on the ground. Grown men are suppose to be working, making a living . . . sweat of the brow and all that.

I feel like the character in that Steven King movie. The one about the writer, played by Johnny Depp.

Well, I've found that writing is as exhausting as physical labor, in some ways, more so. No, not the back pain, bone deep type of exhaustion but the mentally draining type that - suck the life out of you - exhaustion.

Some days I can't write a word. Don't want to. Others I can write 5000 words and want to write more...even if its 3 am. Some good, some bad. Throw away most of it or find stuff that I can't believe I wrote. The writer's life.

This is a strange profession. A whole lot of work with not much up side -but God I love it.

John D. McDonald once said he wrote about a million words before he truly understood what he was doing. I should be writing. I know it.

"The people whom God or nature intended to be writers find thier own answers, and those who have to ask are impossible to help. They are merely people who want to be writers." Raymond Chandler


Never, Never, Never Quit . . . Winston Churchill

I think I have a six pack of PBR in the frig . . . . . me

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