The hell with it . . . I can't fight it . . . I must take some time off novel writing . . . This has been a rough year, because I have been in the business of rewriting and getting novels in the best shape I possible can before publishing them. Since I can't pay for someone to edit I have to do it myself. That puts me in the same boat of a lot of people, I am sure.
I thought I was ready to write Katrina's Prey, and I might have been, except like I mentioned before something happened which has taken my energy . . . Okay, I'll tell what happened . . .
On August 15 I received an email from a daughter I had not seen since she was two years old. She is forty now. Patricia is her name and she tracked down her AWOL dad. Now that she has done that she isn't all that certain what or how she should think about it. She has a brother also, my son Nick, who I only saw once right after he was born in Flushing, Long Island, New York. He doesn't seem to want to "talk" to his father . . . I cannot blame him . . . I shan't (love that word) get into the where's and wherefore's of what happened thirty-eight years ago to separate me from them, because it is private between myself and Patricia (and Nick, if he ever wants to know). Patricia's mother, Nanette, died three years ago . . . I don't know from what . . . Not yet . . .
So! There it is. The reason I can't put my thoughts into a novel, I seem to be living one . . .
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