A morning when I don’t want to write here, when I question the utility of it all. Creative schizophrenia rampant: To whom do I owe these pieces? (No one but myself). Who reads them? (It doesn’t matter/But it does, doesn’t it?/No, not at all; you forget what you’ve written by the time you hit publish). No doubt a byproduct of one truncated day and one eliminated day but one that demonstrates how essential this place is for me. The work of the writer is simple: to show up and write words, even—especially—when one doesn’t want to. All of the 60.1 pages and 14,900 words (according to the stats on the Ulysses sheet I use to compose these maunderings), that comprise the 92 (93) posts on this site are the results of a daily revving of what passes for my creative engines. Some days they sputter like a cold lawnmower, others they blast down the straight stretch of SR 95 between the towns of I forget the first one’s name and the aptly-named Funk. But no matter what, they must be ignited. To work.