…I wrote one final, and tomorrow another, and in between I will write nothing of merit (sure, I think I get the meaning of the word now, sigh). By merit I mean writing something real to me (probably a poem), not factual, or non-fictional, but imaginative. Something from the dark cave of my released mind, (maybe cave art?). An escape from the primordial pain of the fingers (I’m faster typing on a keyboard anyway), a release from the spasmodic jag of writing cramps, both mentally and physically (which is happening right now). Although, I must confess, I’ll not be writing something of grace. (Because I’m passionate, dammit, not graceful (those who know me well understand the ungraceful part all too well)).