Just another frantic Friday

I heard yesterday from my old friend Alan. He had written some poetry and wanted to send it to me to look at. I almost never turn down an offer to read a new author's poetry, so refusing him would have been ungracious.

Besides, his wife is one of my truest fans (she keeps my books on a shelf only shared by Anne Rice, and anyone charitable enough to give Ms. Rice a place next to my works is a good soul. At least it is not next to Tom Clancy).

Starting to try to think about to attempt to get going in the direction of rebuilding my social life. I already have some great anecdotes, but I will hold them back for now. Too weird.

I woke up the other night from a dream and wrote a mountain of erotic poetry. Some pretty fair stuff. The engine is still running, just at a purring idle. No use in gunning it until there is a road to travel.