I have a terrible confession to make

Wrote my three sentences during my sabbatical. Article's now under review. If I hear something before Labor Day I'll be shocked. When people say academics measure time with calendars, not clocks, they mean it.

 

I am at the coffee shop, clocking 30,294 words—the one-third mark, more or less. Slightly ahead of pace. Publisher liked the opening chapters, and I'm now clear to write the rest of the book without direct supervision. Feeling good, thank you.

I was sitting here on a church pew that's stretched across several tables, but the woman next to me was farting. While there was no smell, I could feel the vibrations. I have since moved. Onward.

 

Also, "The Boxer" by Simon & Garfunkel is playing, and it's a song that makes me feel deep feelings for various reasons. I am in a very happy place.

 

Glad to hear it, my friend.

Good job, dq.

Fact-checking the latest, which will run soon. And going back and forth with the bosses for the next two.

Likewise very happy.

 

I just wrote up the minutes for yesterday's board meeting. Does that count for anything?

 

It all goes toward the annual word count, so yes.

 

Anytime I find myself on 7th Avenue downtown I think of "The Boxer."

 

I will put the verse that begins, "In the clearing stands a boxer ..." up against any verse in the history of recorded American music.

Come at me, Bob Dylan.

 

Are you adding an epilogue covering Passan's Ohtani column?

 

Heh. Wife surprised me with this on my last birthday.

 

I am writing the biography of an astrophysicist, so no. Wait. Maybe?

 

I cannot keep your various projects straight. That said, is he Asian? That might be a hook.