Maybe 2,000 words. Multiple characters. A reporter has invaded my story (I'll try to be nice to her).

2,500-some words, set in the future about a Bay Area newspaper columnist traveling across the U.S. and back by bus, and then up and down the West Coast by car. How far ahead, you ask? Far enough so that he has to cancel his rehearsals with (of all things) an acapella doo-wop group that does pop tunes from the 1980s. Or maybe it'll be someone else singing. Can't decide.

Matt, I'm on it. Tyler, consider yourself invited. Have we missed anyone else?

And, oh, did someone say "tame costume"? I thought it was pretty cool, actually.



None of my ideas are panning out. I've just been wingin' it with this riff I came up with the other night, but didn't commit to a 'puter file until today.

George, Tyler is also participating. Can you invite him to join this?

In need of ideas? Here's a suggestion from spoken-word novelist Liz: A prisoner escapes, probably from Alcatraz, crawls through the sewer, shows up on the Castro on Halloween, and nobody notices. In fact, they think his costume is tame. Of course, you should ask her permission before stealing/borrowing. Wrote some but not enough before work today.

And we're off!

By the way, the twins are girls. The mother is not single. That's about all I know right now. I'm going to have to find my own soap for inspiration.

13.5 hours of freedom and counting. The ticking time bomb that the secret agents are trying to find (it's in his body) and defuse. I'm ready for midnight. Where's my coach/pumpkin? Who was wearing the glass slipper? Are these important questions the reader would want answered?

Just because she's on the merry-go-round with twins, someone has to be a single parent? Nah. My two cents? The twins (get this) are grown. Maybe they're identical. Maybe they're fraternal. Maybe they're both in love with the laughing heroine.

Maybe I need sleep. And Halloween candy. And water. And coffee (I prefer lattes, actually). And a coffee table to put it all on.

Now, Liz is on to something. Parents as spies, that's boffo box office right there. But let's write our novels first before we option off the screenplay rights for seven-figure sums.

I just realized this is going to have to be a coffee-table book to fit a title that long on the cover.

I woke up this morning with the following phrase looping through my head: She laughs on the merry-go-round with two twins. It was looking for a place in the world, so I think it's the working title I'll set atop the mountain of words that is about to jump from my fingers. I'm predicting a slow start with lots of self-loathing and resolutions to do better by Thanksgiving. I'm pretty sure, also, that I'll be writing in this venue when I should be working on the NOVEL. I can't even imagine what the stack of pages will look like when (if) I finish.

So, I'm sick to my stomach. I was at home this afternoon, standing before the kitchen window, looking down at the perfectly clean grout between the tiles and thinking "Gee, when's the last time I've scrubbed it? Bet I could do it right now!" And realizing, of course, that these thoughts will come thick and fast during the month of November. Everything will become a welcome distraction from sitting in my chair and cranking out the words, not because the story won't be interesting (at least to me), but because I'm deeply afraid of attempting a sustained, focused creative effort.

There. I said it. How about you?

testing, testing ...