I’ve felt a little off this week, like some of that stuff about the planets being aligned; The Beavers in retrograde. I’m not making fun of people who know what that stuff means, much respect, but it’s a lot to remember. You guys and gals do you.

My current “work in progress” is something I’ve never spoken to anyone about other than my wife. I’ve never posted details about it on social media either. You read that correctly. This idiot managed to keep the lid on something. I truly am changing through sobriety after all. I wish it would’ve kicked in before I lost my readers, but we get what we give.

My wife calls this my “Dune”, and she only knows the outline. I truly hope not. I’ve never read the books but I can’t stand the films. I walked out of the last one. I get what she means, though.

This could be my Star Wars. My Carrie. My ‘Living On A Prayer’.

I dont know how I feel about that. I’m normally pretty loose lipped with all of my projects. It was drunken single writer rite of passage. His corpse is still wriggling in the basement begging for mercy. He’ll receive none; the bastard. He owes me decades.

No, the only project I didn’t tease was A Taste of Home, simply because Facebook was in its infancy and I handwrote the whole novel. Strange days. I even physically mailed it to its original publisher. Those were the days.

I’m not giving myself a time limit. I’m just writing it as it comes to me. No rules.

Lost is what I am, really. That was fifteen years ago. I was lost then too, but in a totally different way. The business of this whole damned writer gig made me loathe it all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is I have a new book that’s about to be finished, and I don’t even have a title. What does that even mean?

Writer’s blues; reflected.

Take me back to the typewriter, baby. I need those paper cuts to feel again.