Morning. Previously about now I would be heading out to my truck with tools to drive into work, Now I can't carry the tools. Now I'm sitting here in front of the fire with coffee in my sweats with the morning before me, sitting in front of this word processor with all the time I want to write, like I've been dreaming of and praying for that some day I'd get. So hear it is. It wasn't quite the way I had in mind. I guess I really didn't have any way in mind, just dreaming and praying of some vague and mysterious time when I could write and my novel would be finished, rough and final draft I suddenly I wold be an author and published and living on a chuck of land outside of Chattanooga working in my Norm Abrams wood shop and summering with Jackie on the Isle of Capri and agreeing with Dickens that the Almaffie Coast is one of the most beautiful places on earth.

However it's morning and I'm not in Capri or Chattanooga, and I have a lot of work to do to finish the novel and I here writing in my blog so I can get used to Writing anything again, get used to banging the keys to see what will come out, to see if I haven't lost my chops, to shake the rust out of the old noggin, to, now that I've had a stroke, to get over it and get on with the rest of my life.