No matter what, "no matter what," I said. But words and action didn't coincide. Life got in the way again.

How many of us out there believing that we can escape the daily grind, a boring career, a demanding spouse, restless children, all of the components of existence, lose it all and become . . . a writer.

Then, fifty thousand or hundred thousand words in, the revision begins, the reality that the words don't match the lustrous vision. And it's daily grind again, but this time parsing out syllables, then words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters, all setting themselves up for butchery.

Yes, I'm revising THE novel again. Can't you tell by that big smile on the scratched-up tableau that used to be my face and eyes?