Sometimes I’m possessed of thoughts that beg to be written. Such ideas gush like water from a broken dam (or backed up sewer) onto the screen.

Others taunt and tease -- I must chase and cajole those into place. I grapple and eventually pin them to the mat. (Usually, that is . . . a few escape.)

But my favorites are only half mine . . . the epic collaborations. These are an intricate dance, never rushed. The tangos advance and retreat for days, weeks, or longer, tempos and beats fluctuating, floating across many stages and halls.

I don’t know about Papa Hemingway’s jonesing . . . we are each compelled by varied addictions. Sometimes it’s a lil' bump I crave . . . Sometimes I abandon all prudence and recklessly degenerate as I generate.

Wait . . . are we still talking about writing?

Gwen Saoirse . . . how’s that laundry? 😂

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