Today’s title is actually the lovingly borrowed title of a  song written by Sandy Denny in 1967 and recorded by a variety of artists over the years—the signature recording, in my estimation, made by silky-voiced Judy Collins.

As those of you who follow my blog (thank you!) have no doubt deduced, I have a time and discipline issue,  which is one of the reasons why I haven’t yet written The Great American Novel. On paper, at least. I’ve been joking for years that I’ve written it in the bathtub a zillion times—the problem being that all of those words fly off to Neverland once I get to the typewriter. Yes, I have been making this excuse since I had that most wondrous of typewriters, an IBM Selectric that I got for $10 when the junior college nearby was upgrading equipment. Best $10 I ever spent.

The honest-to-goodness truth—in the event that you’re not already way ahead of me on this one—is that I am highly unlikely EVER to write The Great American Novel, partly because I’m better at character than plot, and partly because I struggle terribly with focus. This blog keeps me writing, and that’s a very good thing. Writers, even those who are not destined for greatness or even for publication, need to write. Perhaps naively, I had thought that once the crush of intense, deadline-driven work assignments had eased, I would have no trouble finding time to write. But here’s the simple truth: I am now both busier and lazier, and the fact that I no longer have to obligate all of my day to work has made it much easier to obligate it to nothing at all. And so the time goes by—a little of this, a little of that. I am busy. Household chores, time with family and friends, playing around in the kitchen or garden, binging Euro and Brit TV (which, actually, is a good thing since it keeps me accustomed to hearing French, Italian, or German).

While there is great freedom is knowing that I don’t HAVE to do anything on a particular day because I don’t HAVE to be anywhere or do anything that day or even the next, there is also frustration that I haven’t been more productive, and that time is not slipping, but flying by.

Meanwhile, I have a paper folder stuffed with aborted writing attempts, some from nearly 40 years ago, that are probably worth revisiting. Plus an electronic file of remnants from the last 25 years. I used to say that I wanted to complete one fairly solid piece of fiction in my lifetime. The only obstacle to that goal is my own commitment. Thanks to the blog and Twitter world, some personal acquaintances who are accomplished and published writers, and to wonderful books like Parting the Curtains, I have no illusions about that the nature of that commitment. It is deep and unequivocal and definitely not for the faint of heart. Or the lazy and unfocused. You don’t play at writing.

Well, I may give it one last go. We will see.