One of the more pleasant consequences of my renewed dedication to writing is that I haven't had time to be distracted by politics.

( Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in )

I made a rather enlightening discovery this evening.

( A lie with no truth at all )

Irene thought she was a rock star, and the East Coast was her hotel room.

( New avenues of thought )

Irene was full of sound and fury, but she's done her damage and headed north. And so it goes.

( No power ≠ no writing )

Who knew that a couple of shoeboxes could be so elusive?

( A shoebox, a shoebox! My kingdom for a shoebox! )

Ernest Hemingway allegedly said that "there is nothing to writing. All you do," he explained, "is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."

( The brutal truth inside my lies )

I took the bait and checked out Dean Wesley Smith's website.

( A creative philosophy of art )

Dean Wesley Smith wrote in February of 2009 that "most professional writers can average about one thousand words an hour."

( This book is certainly a lie )

My words are born pregnant.

( Fiction is the truth inside the lies )

I write like Tribbles reproduce.

( The Trouble With Writers )