Hemingway Not Yet

Until I labor, I in labor lie.

I am really too darn tired to write anything or even to care about writing anything. I am still on last weeks clock and I worked all day roofing. I need to write. I need to transform my sleepy brain into an instrument that can play words and ideas like music. And to do that I must write every day, tired or not, in a deliberate way. Everything else I do for someone else, to pay the bills to satisfy a customer, to provide for my family, to minster to others. Writing is an indulgence, at least at this point; at my age and in my situation and without much really to say it is merely an indulgence and a vain ambition.