I made myself write tonight. I waffled and wandered and contemplated changes to one thing and what to delete in another. Guess what... Waffling and wandering and contemplating doesn't really get much accomplished. Chuck Palahniuk never sits down without a scene, sometimes a whole chapter in his head. He thinks staring at a blank scene is useless. (I'd quote my source but I can't remember it.) Apparently, duh, I am no chuck palahniuk. I opened a new window and I started typing. I was honest. What more can we ask? An inkling of something started to form. I let it fly. It flew onto the wrong continent with no return ticket and I will most likely delete all but the first few pages as they are nonsensical, but I did it. It's mine. I obviously wrote it. It reeks of me, like I'd peed on it to mark my territory. For that I am thankful. Good day and good night.