One of my grandchildren said, “I like grandma better than you.”

Dan Struckman

Here’s the truth:  My prose is weak and getting weaker.  My wife and children no longer read my stuff because I overshared before.

My nephew’s wife unfriended me.  Yes.  Things are just about the way they ought to be.  My old friends are creeped out.  I’m a miserable failure as a writer.  Boo hoo hoo.  Who who who gives a big fat damn?  Nobody.  I have just myself to blame and myself to write for.  My reader base is shrinking because people are disappointed that my shit ain’t got no pizzazz.  No get up and go to school.  Worse, there’s nothing there.  NOTHING.

Okay.  I still have a story to tell about my late uncle.  I’ve got to man up and get that written and rewritten until it is good.  Sounds like a lot of work and it is.  After that I want to work on my love story, the one that takes place in the hippie days of the 1960s, to make it come out in a humane way.  After that I want to work on my road north book.  I want to take the long road and write about it afterward.  Then, after all that, I want to lay right down and die like a miserable dog.  I hope I’m about 90 then.