Me? Oh, things are great.
Currently, I’m working
on this writing project
about the life and times
of a ferret in the 12th century.
It’s really bad.

There’s no point to it
and every day I continue with the writing
I wonder about
the bog I’ve entered into.
It’s like what the ferret’s friend,
Ferret Number Two
says in the middle of the Chapter Three:
"I seem to have entered into a bog;
I wonder how."

Yeah, it’s not going well.
I keep thinking that if I play through,
it’ll start to make sense
and the characters will come to life
and the plot will have meaning
and it’ll become clear to me
why I thought it would be important
that the ferret
who has no sense of history
should have to be in the 12th century
and not the 15th
or why I can’t give the ferret a more interesting name
than Ferret.

I have devoted so much time
to this bad project
from this dumb idea
and I seem to believe
that doubling down will do some good.

It’s really not good.

I could show you some drafts,
if you’d like.