Usually every blog I write here promsies that I will write more regularly, think more clearly, be better in some specific way.  All the while accepting that I don't quite understand blogs; I love that some of you are kind enough to read what I write, but blogs tend to be personal thoughts that seldom move the earth. 

Since I'm writing this at 2 in the morning, I may not be coherent.  I tend to have that problem, anyway, according to my youngest daughter.  She hates that I interrupt most sentences with other sentences to advance the original story, which she insists I never really finish.  I tell her that I'm a writer, and that's what writers do--add sentences to an original idea.

Writing is much more than that, of  course--a poison.  A cure. I'm not sure.  I'm awake because of health worries, money worries, work worries, worries about the state of a world in which a bastard can kill a hundred people without blinking.  Nothing makes sense.  So I write or think about writing.  To often, it's the latter.

Sometimes, stories do finish themselves.  I recently submitted a story to an up and coming electronic publisher; now I wait.  And work on another story, and try, as we all do, to forget or at least control our wayward worries and the jumble of thoughts that bounce us off walls.  Or propel us up ladders.  Words seldom fail writers, I suspect--but thoughts might.