I’ve not written a significant word since April. Since I don’t have a good excuse, I won’t embarrass myself and bore you by making up a bad one.
This year, 2006, is almost half over.
A daydream haunts me. In this dream, I’m older, by a decade or more, sitting on the couch in someone’s living room, drinking something enjoyable and explaining how a lot of great authors didn’t actual start writing or publishing until they were older, even in their fifties or sixties. I’m talking about Frank McCourt and Karen Blixen, and going on and on and on about my writing and my philosophies and how someday soon, real soon, I’m going to write something important.
That someone in the room with me—who he or she is, I suppose, isn’t important—just sits across from me in a comfortable chair, listening to me with the dead-eyed gaze of the terminally bored, saying over and over, “Yeah, that’s it, buddy. Keep that dream alive.”