I’m doing a website for Prairie Ag Coop. Next week, Davis & Palmer might hire me to build them one. And my step-dad forwarded me a lead from my mother, of all people, whom I shall call tomorrow. (“Hi, I realize I sound like a frog but I’m really your future webmaster. Please fill out the damn quote form at goblinbox.com/services already.”)

I’m doing two issues of the Enfield Bullet Owner’s newsletter back-to-back, and most of the articles are hand written (I kid you not: folks who ride vintage-style bikes don’t use computers nor digital cameras much) and I’ll have to type them in. And the most exciting part is that I have no idea who will be paying me for the work.

On top of all that, I just discovered No Media Kings and now think I should just get my shit together and write myself a book. I mean, how hard can it really be? No one reads as much as I do; it’s not like I don’t know an awful lot about character, story, pacing, tone and texture.

Maybe it’s just that the guy writes so well. He makes it sound so utterly fun to write a book and self-publish it. Or maybe it’s just that his index page is powered by Movable Type, and I’m in love with MT even though I haven’t mastered it quite yet and am still running a lame-ass template.

My problem with writing is the same I had with composing music: I enjoy reading (and music) a lot, but I never really have much to say. (If you doubt me, read my blog. Yawn.) Perhaps the truth is this: who cares if you have nothing to say. Add your voice to the noise anyway and some dumbass is bound to find you interesting in spite of yourself. (Also true in music: every time I’m a one-song ringer in someone else’s band I get accosted by bag boys for months afterwards.)

Quick, someone send me an outline. I could probably bang out a full-length novel in a few months… well, if I could summon up some discipline that is.