The fact that one is merely thinking about doing daily word count blog updates is a good thing, although not quite likely enough to promise. The grind of keying-up just a few more pages of small print is choking now. Would be easier with a pint of Pernod and Coca-Cola, but to the best of my knowledge, at the moment, that ain't about to happen. Alcohol loosens the tongue and fingertips, but very soon it clouds the mind, and the line between enriched carefree prose and misspelled fudge is a delicate one. To be honest, it is almost time to work on SCHMOE now, fiction for weightlifters and gym goers. That comes quick and easy and is a laugh from the get go. It's for a community, it's a social endeavour, it's quirky and bombastic (what does bombastic mean?). It's Art Till Death's BEST CHANCE of being known. Oh yeah, you better believe. Many many others are writing novels (although not memorable masterpieces), but far far fewer are writing specialised non-pervy gym fiction. That, ladies and hippos, is ATD's meal ticket. And by meal ticket, he means publicity trick, not food. Nothing is for nothing, supposedly, but isn't the UNIVERSE the ultimate free lunch? Has anybody got any Snickers ice creams? Or Hubba-Bubba melted on Hot Cross Buns?