I will write until my muse is silenced and my fingers deny their dexterity. Words will spring from me until the font runs dry and leaves me parched at last. These days, I write largely about writing, my wife, or finding new ways to ridicule this or that particular peeve. Some days bring stylistic stricture, others I aim for the most uncomfortable shades of haphazardous words, while most yield nothing because I am one of my own villains.
