I kept going, through wind and rain, through snow and what looks like spring now, but I know in my heart is actually Colorado’s dreaded Faux Spring.  (Hearts have been broken, plants have been trashed, lives have been forever altered, all thanks to Faux Spring.)  I would finish that last chapter come hell or bizarrely rampaging Republican candidates, I promised myself and virtually thousands of blog-followers.


I reached page 328 yesterday and recognized in horror the chapter was finished. Unfortunately, I still had a crap-load of information to give my thousands of readers, primarily how the god****** book ends. (I warned you all at the beginning that I am a devotee of 19th century novels and I have to get in their little quirks now and again.)

I wept quietly for precious moments, all the while pondering the insanity of ever writing one word more. Verbal dexterity is a highly overrated commodity, I murmured into the silent air of the Garret.  When no one murmured back, I printed out The Chapter, and placed it atop the obscenely high stack of pages already threatening my desk. Then, God help me, I began to format the–I shudder as I type this–Last Chapter. The one in which I tell my thousands of readers how the god****** book ends.  And wouldn’t you know…I can’t get Word to put the page number in the proper place inside the heading. And after snaking my way through the miniscule mazes of the interminable menus offering this option and that, I can’t find any simple suggestion to tell me what to do, which means I’ll have to ask the IMac gods, and they’re so superior in their little cubicles with their pictures of Ren and Stimpy, and their tiny copies of the Desiderata tacked to their foam-covered walls.  Just because I’ve been working on The Last Chapter so long that I’ve forgotten how to start another chapter. Pah!

Could this be a sign? An omen of other frustrations lurking in the days ahead?

I’m afraid to consult the Runes.