I been working, J.D. Salinger style.

Spent the weekend walking back and forth, sleeping, lying on the sofa, looking out the window, washing clothes and dishes, feeding cats, whistling and singing, paying a few bills--all those things that writers do while thinking and working out problems with a story. The problem isn't with the story, to tell the true, it's with me not wanting to write another 50,000+ words. So I might as well just sit in the chair, wiggle the fingers, and get it done.

First, I've got to go to the post office and mail a 5-lb. book. I only sold 7 books in November, and I think they added up to about 20 pounds collectively.