# 17

I did not intend to write any more short stories right now, rather to concentrate on the revisions of the two I have chosen to submit.

But, the Muse will have her way and I have written two more, with a third in the wings awaiting its creation.

By the by, my Muse lives in a rock. Granted, it is not any old rock, but a polished oval agate with her name inscribed upon it. It is handy to have a portable Muse, in particular when you write in a coffee shop

I wrote story seventeen at The Wired Monk this morning. The place was staffed with friendly, pretty, young women, and I wonder if their beauty is part of the reason I choose to write in this little café.

I am a middle-aged man after all.

But, except for enjoying a friendly smile and the sway of hips when I happen to glance up at exactly the right moment, they are background noise to me as I write.

That, and fodder for my stories.

In this latest short, I explore dementia. A hard, sad topic, thus one worth scrutinizing.

I did my best to put myself into the head of an Alzheimer’s patient.

We shall see with what success.

Good writing all Coffee Shop Authors and every visitor who is a scribe.

jaw