Things are moving along, ship shape and crackle pot. I’m all on fire right now, my apartment filled with the stench of burning flesh and sizzling fat—I mean, no, not that, that metaphor ran away with me. I mean, I meant to say, that things are going well. Thus far. They could tank and crash in a couple of Chapter’s time. I mean, who knows? Novels are a mystery. They’re like those miniature doberman pinschers that obey an internal logic all of their own, regardless of outside stimulus.

Either way, I’m nicely ahead of schedule now. The number of words I have to write per diem in order to finish by Dec 31st has dropped to about 2100 from the 2450 it was two days ago.

Here we go, yukon ho!