Sunday, February 10, 2013


Perhaps this is conceit, and perhaps it is "a sign," but great men were not often so humble, so defeatist to allow great loss of work to stop them recreating it.

There is, somewhere in the world, a thumb drive or external hard drive that still holds every poem, essay, novel chapter, dialogue, monologue, travelogue and diary entry I have written. It is just not resident under my  super sweet roof.

Except the Bourbon Book, which is still in a simple 10k word dribble on this particular computer. Which is fortunate, because that trip is scheduled to embark this Wednesday. That's four days away. I had better get that freaking structured, and fast!

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