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Did the dragon win today, or did I whip it’s ass? Neither. It took me all day to do an essay for an interview. I got it done, but I didn’t get to touch the book that’s actually due. So did I slay the dragon, or did I not take the field at all today? I don’t know. I have a hard time seeing anything but actual pages on the current book as real work. But the interview and the essays are writing, are work, but . . . I don’t know, though I’ve worked all day I come to the end of this day and feel as if I’ve done no work. I have pages to my name, but not on THE HARLEQUIN. I’ve asked for some help from New York on some of the shorter pieces, just give me some ideas and how to do it. Short is one of the hardest things for me to write. I just don’t think short. I find it especially difficult to write short about a book I’ve already written. I mean if I could condense it down to a poem, it wouldn’t have needed to be a book, right? I’m outta here for tonight. Even though the pages didn’t get me a bit closer to the end of the current book, the pages did take energy out of me. I’m tired now. I’m done for the day, and yet, the book is no closer to completion. Weird. So I’m off to put a chicken in the oven. I’m actually cooking the main dish tonight, instead of Jon. He’s not particularly fond of roast chicken, but he’s letting me cook it, and he’ll eat it, but it seems to be rubbing salt in the wound to make him cook it. Now I’m off to rub salt into the skin of the chicken. I know, I know, some people say no salt, but I think it makes the skin crispier. Roast is the only chicken we do skin on, and I want the skin crispy. If I’m going to be unhealthy, I want it to be good.