I'm procrastinating blogging, vacuuming, writing, and exercising.

So, here I am blogging. I paid a neighborhood kid to vacuum for me. No, it's not great, but what do I expect for $5? Just about what I get.

Exercising... I'll start tomorrow.

The writing is going to be painful. I don't know what to do.

That's a lie.

I know what to do. I just don't want to do it.

Red Smith said, "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." A slight variation of that is credited to Hemingway.

And that's what I've got to do. Bleed all over the keyboard.

I don't want to do it. I want to keep a part of me all to myself.

I guess that's why God me to be a writer. Good writers tell stories. Great writers give themselves to the story.

I'm being challenged... oh, all right... convicted that I'm too reticent when I write. Not willing to go where I need to.

There's a joke among students in my local writing teacher's classes. At her funeral, we're going to gather around her grave and shout into it: "Go deeper, Elnora!"

It's what she's been exhorting me to do. And I can't avoid it any longer.

Hmmm... I think the living room can use a good vacuuming.