Scheduled or not, my meeting Wednesday with the landlord went like most – a cancellation declared by absence. Since he didn’t show, I peeped through the frosted glass windows of the storage room in question. Inside, a garden hose, a mattress, and a fake Xmas tree. And space. Lots of space. The exact dimensions are unknown but the eyes say, or want to say at least, enough for eight to twelve shelves. Thank you, Jesus!

On the writing front, Velocity continues. Following a top down edit of the first one hundred and ten pages last week I tossed one and a half. I say again � after a thorough edit � just over one percent of the content was excised. That was, I must note, a personal record. Honestly, the cut scene had bothered me for six weeks, and I suspected death beckoned, but had hoped that time might alter my perspective. Time lost; scene terminated.

It’s pretty cool after investing months on a manuscript to discover that, for once, it’s not a big fucking mess. The trade off is the rate of output. A really good session nets two pages, and averages out to ten pages a week. Using this method writing a book will take nine months to a year. Perhaps a really big advance check might provide more incentive, but I doubt that. I was born two weeks late. Some things don’t change.