That's what I call my half hour swim every morning - wet meditation. In season, that is, when classes are running, I go over my Icelandic numbers; other times I plan menus and grocery lists, going over the contents of my fridge, checking out leftovers I must use. Sometimes, as this morning, I begin with the next section of an essay I'm working on, the introduction to my book. But then I lose focus and move around. I surprised myself this morning with the range of my thinking, not that it was inspiring or profound, but that it covered so much geographical territory, all within the limits of an outdoor pool, I mean, not even a lake.

This is a nice, non-theatening use of inner dialogue, semi-directed but wide-ranging. The late writer and my friend, W.O (Bill) Mitchell (1914-1998), used to assign writing students an exercise he called "free-fall". The purpose was to unleash hidden thoughts and unexpressed ideas and give them free rein, see what's lurking there in the sub-conscious. Some people found seeds of a story, or maybe a character in a story, or maybe fewer inhibitions. That's a positive negative, isn't it? The idea is not to think, just to write. That's not quite what I do when I write my daily blog though it must read like it at times. The trouble with the inner dialogue is that it's so layered, so tangential. Inchoate.

I think so. Cogito ergo sum.

I actually went through a period in my life when I was addicted to Harlequin Romances. It was after I was widowed and I missed loving, being loved, aka sex. I found an HR book somewhere, read it and cried. I missed being held and the goopy little romance reminded me of what I was missing. I read more such books. i called them safe sex. I got over them soon but for a few months I was reading about five a week. Silly me.

I'd forgotten about them until the other afternoon when I was checking out my mini-tablet (no WiFi on the bus) and found some free downloads of Harlequin Romances - no idea where they came from - but I thought, how bad can they be? I used to read them, after all.

In a matter of minutes, I switched off Minnie - aargh! - what a terrible book! The grammar was appalling; the choice of words was ridiculous and often inaccurate; the emotions were unbelievable; and the focus on the wrong kind of details totally insulting. Oh dear.

At one time, when I was flailing around trying to make a living, I thought I might try writing one of those soppy, happy stories, but found I could not. It's trickier than it looks. At times in my career I have been a writer-in-residence at various libraries where I had to read writing samples of wannabe writers. I could spot a fake attempt at an HR in the first few paragraphs, especially the ones by men. They simply were not authentic.

The late novelist, John Gardner, (1933-1982), who was a fine creative writing teacher and a great influence on Raymond Carver, for one, commented on this kind of kitschy writing. He said , "Not everyone is capable of writing junk fiction. It requires an authentic junk mind."

I just don't have it. Too bad, I guess. Harlequin writers make a lot of money.