I'm at Panera's waiting for the second half of my day to begin. This is the time I usually spend working on a novel I'm developing. I like the characters and the storyline. But I'm not working on it.

Why?

I don't know. I feel a little afraid of the story today. I had a pretty shitty day at work and I think I'm worried that attitude might spill over into their lives. They have enough going on without having to deal with my woes.

So instead of writing, I'll just blather here in my blahg.

All I have to do is write until I feel calm and ready. I don't have to say anything or really follow any theme. Consider this a stream of consciousness entry. I could talk about my work, muppets, the loss of self-esteem or my feelings of betrayal when I admit I really hated "Brokeback Mountain."

Isn't this fun?

I tried to find a copy of Maurice Walsh's "The Quiet Man" for Jonathan for his birthday, but it appears to be out of print. I also looked for the Feb. 11, 1933 issue of "The Saturday Evening Post" where the story first appeared. No luck there either. I did, however, find a copy of the story online, so I printed it out and threw it into a notebook. I won't give up looking for an original copy.