Painful Memories Didn't Just Ease Back In-they

My House Has Too Many Distractions. There's The Email. There's Checking My Amazon Ranking. I Know I'm The Only Author Who's Ever Done That, Ever. There's The Fax. Too Many Distractions. I Like To Go Out And Write.

The First Sip Of Beer On A Hot Day Is Like That First Finger-dip When You Open A New Jar Of Peanut Butter.

But Sometimes, Maybe Most Times, It Isn't That Clear. It Is Dark And You Are Near The Edge Of A Cliff, But You're Moving Slowly, Not Sure Which Direction You're Heading In. Your Steps Are Tentative But They Are Still Blind In The Night. You Don't Realize How Close You Are To The Edge, How The Soft Earth Could Give Away, How You Could Just Slip A Bit And Suddenly Plunge Into The Dark.

Myron Reached For The Phone And Dialed Win's Number. After The Eighth Ring He Began To Hang Up When A Weak, Distant Voice Coughed. "hello?" Win?" Yeah." You Okay?" Hello?" Win?" Yeah." What Took You So Long To Answer The Phone?" Hello?" Win?" Who Is This?" Myron." Myron Bolitar?" How Many Other Myrons Do You Know?" Myron Bolitar?" No, Myron Rockefeller." Something's Wrong," Win Said. What?" Terribly Wrong." What Are You Talking About?" Some Asshole Is Calling Me At Seven In The Morning Pretending To Be My Best Friend." Sorry, I Forgot The Time.

Hope Is Cruel. Hope Reminds Me Of What Almost Was. Hope Makes The Physical Ache Return.