That’s what my mind is tonight: mush. But I feel pretty good.  I finished the (third) draft of my screenplay - as I told you and I felt like a sprung spring. Then today’s Blue Jays game was a hand wringer.

I have started digging down through the mountains of paper that had piled up while I was working.  I got the papers, clippings, hard copies and bills and even some letters sorted and culled. Now I just have to follow-up on all the to-dos, deadlines, replies and ideas that emerged, not to mention noodges. That, plus cleaning the place for a party next week, not cleaning, really, but clearing.  It’s not a huge party but big enough for my apartment that I have to hide stuff, sort of like staging a  house for sale. For a day, someone tidy will live here.

In the days of my speaking engagements, readings and promotion appearances for my books, my introduction always sounded like an obituary, or a publicity director’s idea of A Writer. The many accomplishments I was given credit for made me sound unreal, either unreal or driven, either driven or ruthless.  So when I stood up, I usually told my audience a fact that reduced me to a common denominator.

“I don’t dust,” I said.

I still don’t, but this week I will. 

My battery will sleep soon.  Me too.