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I am exhausted this morning.  I barely got any sleep, and what I did get came well after 3 a.m.  There is not enough Café Bustelo in the entire can to lift my eyelids, today.  I was visited last night by three women who simply would not leave me alone.

They are the principal characters in the novel I am about to begin writing that is already bursting at the seams, champing at the bit, and about to overtop the dam.  I had pledged to give myself the summer off and not begin a new book in earnest until September, but these women refuse to wait.  “Say this,” they tell me, and “say it this way.”  “I want to go here, do this, and here’s why, and don’t forget that, and oh about that man next door—here’s the truth about him.  You need to remember about him.  Are you listening?  Don’t you think you need to get up and write this down?  Hello? Hello?”

Say what you will about the gentler sex, it takes all a man’s skill and strength to make a life with one of them.  Three plus one is simply not going to work.  I have to kick these women out of my head and onto the page where they belong, and soon, or no one is ever going to get any sleep around here.