We begin.

As required by the gods of marketing and social media, I must be transparent and "reachable" by an audience.

Readers and the finished product of the writing effort I love. Everything else, I despise. Oh - agents, publishers, marketers, book sellers, store owners, other writers are all individually very nice people. They're fun to talk to over a cup of coffee. They're all engaging.

Many writers are hermits. We like it that way. If we could manage our own emotional lives, we won't turn to the lovely controlled worlds we create in print. It's too bloody easy to be run to somewhere we don't want to go because to refuse, resist, redirect, or retreat is rude.  "Answer the bloody question or comment on my brilliant supposition" is the look we get with every sentence markedly thrust in our direction. [ Never admit to being a writer at a party, but then you knew this already. At best someone has heard of your work, maybe read it, and will be forced to lie to you about their enjoyment. Don't do that to them. Say you're in the insurance business right off and save everyone the trouble.]

Sensitive ? No. I think the rest of the world is merely insensitive as the side effect of some communal industrial disease transmitted by email, cell phone, and - gasp- Facebook.

Writing for me is a horrid solitary act. It isn't a period of intense introspection followed by revelation and release. It is dentistry. Properly, it is bathroom dentistry in the mirror over the shelf of deodorant, shaving cream, razor, toothpaste, and a small dirty glass. There is a fly buzzing around, also. The floor is cold. The air is hot and damp. Every tool I touch has a layer of condensation that reminds me of someone else's sweat soaked into an airplane seat still warm from their six-hour from Dallas.

That seems pretty "reachable." I suspect my readers will understand that image well enough.

Now, off to write. I think the fluorescent bulb over the mirror has developed an annoying flicker. Surprise.