I finally got some ground on my story, yesterday. Not much, but enough that I know where it’s going, and I have a twist that seems obvious, now. I hadn’t thought of it, before.

Last night was one of those lying awake, calculating the exact time you could sleep, if you were going to sleep nights. Staring at the ceiling night. Checking the clock night. That started right around the time I went to bed, and continued, until I looked at the clock and figured I might as well get up.

I was going to get up and work on the story, but I checked some e-mail, and my stats on the blog, and dropped by a forum. And then, I remembered that I hadn’t written a blog post for today. So, I’m writing a blog post for today.

And I had to know just how old Sylvia Plath really was, that queer and sultry summer they executed the Rosenbergs.

Oh, yes. I’m easily distracted.

I can’t decide if writing a blog post counts, or if it’s just a catching-up busy work that keeps me from doing something worthwhile with my life.