But where shall I begin? And what should I presume?

Those are the questions we must ask.

At the moment I'm dutifully asking them, as I sit in my local Panera, staring at the 44,772 words of novel on my computer screen, and the seven pages of scribbled notes that are supposed to help me finish with it. At the moment, they aren't helping in the least. (A writer's life is terribly hard.)

This is actually the first time I've been to this Panera. It's not as nice as the one near the Small and Peculiar College, where I went several times, and I find myself missing SPC as a result. (Not the classes, you understand, but the excursions.)

Spring classes here ended almost two weeks ago--which means I'm through with both theory and skills forever. (Those of you who are, or have been, music majors will understand. Those of you who aren't or haven't been, think Latin.) I celebrated by eating cheap sushi and going to see a disturbing Romanian film. It was great fun. (Yes, I'm aware that I have strange notions of fun.)

Since school ended, I've been watching season 3 of Lost at Glim's instigation (I had given up on it after season 2, but I've been reconverted), sleeping, and trying to work on my novel. (Life is much less crazy when you have one part-time job, instead of two part-time jobs and full-time college.) I've also been keeping up with Battlestar Galactica. Season 4 is off to a good start: last week's episode was brilliant, and I can't wait for more.

In the meantime, my novel languishes . . . . and if I ignore it any longer, I'm afraid it might do something drastic.

And indeed there will be time . . . . . . time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.