I am the writing equivalent of a hamster chained to his wheel trying to run to the other side of an ever expanding cage.

Okay, bad metaphor, but you see where I'm going.

I don't write much about my work here. I think it's because my grandmother once told me when I was about eight that the more someone talked about doing something, the less likely it became that they would actually do it. I remember thinking at the time she was clearly privy to some very profound black voodoo magic. If grandma said it, it must be true. Grandma was all-knowing - hence the poufy white hair. It hid the abnormally large brain.

And that has stuck with me for decades.

(This is also probably proof for worried parents that, yes, you can profoundly screw up a child with one sentence. There's another paranoia I can add to my list.)

In any case, I am in the re-writing process of the current novel. Not the editing process. A full-on rewrite, a fate I had hoped to avoid. I had, in fact, just listened to a very famous author talk about having to re-write one of his books three times. I smiled and nodded encouragingly while secretly thinking, "Sucker!" Then just a month latter, BAM! The universe smacked me upside the head. You get to the end of the first draft. You feel good. You re-read it, and you realize it could be so much better if only... And that "only" leads to a fresh sheet of white paper.

So here I go with my fresh sheets of paper. Except I'm on chapter four when my schedule (I'm crazy about schedules) says I should be starting chapter eight. I am four whole chapters behind, running as fast as my little hamster feet will carry me.

I've taken to working weekends. I'm having weird dreams. Maybe I need some different hamster food pellets. Maybe it's all in the digestion...didn't Scrooge say something about that, a bit of underdone potato was his problem?

Okay, enough. Back to the wheel.