Do you ever have moments where you just have to write, a time when the words are all inside and need to get out? Or maybe it’s just the inside that needs out? Do you ever have days where the world threatens to overwhelm you, suck you under, when God has tossed you the gigantic sack of who-knows-what and you just don’t know whether to go grab-bag or sacktoss?

I do. You may or may not have guessed it, but right now is one of those times. I have the plot in my head, and I’m writing the words that go along with it. Here is where I did this, and this is how it should go. Rarely, of course, does existance follow any sort of discernable plot - and forgive me for saying that though there’s a reason, that reason doesn’t look particularly obvious most of the time, and even when you know why it’s all happening, the reason’s hard to play along with. Sorry for that - it’s a bit depressing, I know.

But then, I have the words inside of me, and in lieu of writing the plot of my own life, I’m still writing that book I’m always talking about, writing it in bits and pieces and heres and theres. It’s about a boy, and then a man, and then a world, and then a purpose that doesn’t make much sense to the observer. Should it ever be published, it probably won’t sell well - after all, books that mirror real life too well rarely do - but then, what sort of writer scribbles down phrases that people want to hear? A great many, I suppose. But that’s life too.

My hands are burning from playing guitar for an hour or so. Now they’re rushing across the keyboard, still limber, still picking out the keys in a way no typist would ever allow.