I’ve got nothing to say – nothing to write – dry as a bone these last months – haunted by the voices of mentors past – of the paper thin frailty of old words, old thoughts. They tell me to begin with a scene, add texture. I begin from inside my soul, and they say that’s Too much – melodramatic – maybe narcissistic. My first marriage ended because I refused to be anyone but myself. My writing wants to be itself, and I fight it constantly. No, I say, You can’t be that way, You can’t say that. My heart is tired of all this fight. I need to file papers and hit the dusty trail, far away from this worn out freak show.