The blog goes dark for a week while I try to catch up on my sleep at a Cabin in the Woods.  I will attempt to fill some pages with words. I’ll do some target shooting. I will make a yeoman’s effort to sleep too much.

If I finish the week with my days and nights reversed, I’m just going to drive my truck into the lake and be done with it.

I bought a fishing license and dusted off my dad’s old tackle box. Actually, I think it belonged to my grandpa at some point. The tackle box is stamped steel, with steel hinged tackle drawers. Painted green. (Mostly.) The gloss has long worn off the paint and it has a chalky texture that makes my molars ache when I run my fingers across it. It ain’t no pristine Plano plastic organizer. That would be a sacrilege and an offense to the fishing gods. Where fishing and guitars are concerned, we must honor the ways of our ancestors.

The forecast for next week is tilting toward a high-percentage chance of writing, not fishing. Another wave of cold. Another snowstorm. Yay.

This is Missouri. March will break your heart, every damn time. EVERY. DAMN. TIME.

Ah well. The objective was not to fish. That was an afterthought. The objective was to write and sleep. And that’s what I’ll do. Maybe.

A crazy little voice inside my head says that I should also attempt a coffee detox while I’m isolated. Ten-plus cups of joe every day is undoubtedly the root cause of my sleep dysfunction. But I know that I would be trading pages of prose for whatever caffeine regulation I could muster. No coffee, no pages. Sometimes I’m asked where all my stories and novels come from.

ANSWER: They grow on a hillside in Guatemala.

I’m already on record as saying the following, but I want to restate it one more time for posterity. I predict this trip to be folly. I’m probably not going to write anything. I’m probably not going to catch up on sleep in a dank, creepy motel room. Certainly not if my only option is either an old, stiff mattress or a hardwood floor. I’m not going to go to the range if it’s freezing cold. Fish will be in cold stasis, not biting. In all likelihood, I will probably stare at water spots on the ceiling and miss my wife.

And that’s not a bad thing. If I arrive home after eight days with the longing for My Beautiful Wife’s embrace thumping in my breastbone, the week will not have been a loss.

Best to you, dear readers. Thanks again to you loyal twenty-five or so who keep coming back, sharing your weekday with me.

Stay safe. Be well. See you in a while.