The story is becoming my life. I eat, sleep, and dream the story. I'm there watching it unfold. I describe what I see in my head. The characters are breathing entities, friends I spend hours with. They are not me, they are not people I know, except on my screen. I watch them, a voyeur in my head as they go through the drama and comedy of their make believe lives.

I'm walking the wharf behind them, seated at the next table at Alioto's, for lunch, shopping in the same places. I have to make myself stop and eat, sleep, move away from the desk before my legs fall off. And yet...

In the back of my head I'm thinking about the big bird that touched me last week. With the publisher ratcheting my insecurity's up to high, and the bird falling into my life, I've lost something, and I don't even know what it is. I'm feeling a loss, something missing, something needed, something gone.

I know I'll hit the rhythm of the writing again, I know the something will either come back or stop being missed. but right now, I want to know what's gone and why?