. . . Not a word, really.

I looked at chapter 3 of the new novel I’m working on. I changed one or two words. I remembered the the type of boat motor I wanted to have one of the characters use was an Evinrude 7.5 horsepower. But other than that? . . . Crickets.

Well, in all fairness, I did write most of a blog about 9/11 and having dinner with three amazing and pretty well-known writers, but it began to feel like a facade for name-dropping, so I scrapped it. There was a point to it, though. Maybe I’ll rewrite it and just use their initials.

But the point is; I’m trying to get into the habit of writing everyday. At least a page. Or a poem. Something to justify this life of complete leisure I’ve managed to devise. Maybe I can decide that today was the last day of a little vacation and tomorrow it back to the grindstone. Yes, tomorrow there will be two pages to make up for today.

I did write something the day before, though. A short poem that I composed while still half asleep. It made much more sense at the time, but here it is:

Smoke rings silent
around the bell of his head
Bell rings once: deafening