OK.  I'm jumping in.  Both feet.  Don't know how deep the water is, and I'm ready to break my ankles.

This is me.  I'm tired of writing to my profile, although I give credit to Dy for the idea.  This isn't a blog site, but I feel like blogging.

There are a dozen stories here that I want to add to.  I'm so impressed, humbled and appreciative to be around so many gifted writers.  Julie, my co-habitant Aphrodites, has probably had enough of me bemoaning not having creative sorts to cohort with.  I used to write a lot.  I used to have a radio show.  I used to be drowned in the succulent gravy that is creative juices.  Then, I moved here.  And I work at a restaurant.  Yuk!

But, BAM!  Hallelujah!  This place is like walking into a restauraunt starving.  There's the 100 item menu.  Pick one.  Might take a while.  So, I'm grateful.  Thank you, Nick for realizing the empty spot that writers feel and for creating a home for them. 

In reagrds to writing, I have two problems.  One is, like the insipid restaurant metaphor, I'm starving and there are too many possibilities to choose from.  Second, I'm currently reading the collected anthology of Stephen Leacock.  And while I read it, my heart swells in admiration and then falls knowing that my writing not only pales in comparison, it's transparent.

Where to go from here?  Want to add?  Go ahead.  It's collaborative.  I just had to get that off my chest.   Hell, start your own.  (provided Nick doesn't mind this type of conjecture I guess)

The End

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