My muse talks to me, when I should be writing, and am writing well, she smiles. Today, I saw, she was not smiling. Believe me, I might be mad but her expression changes all of the time, and her message to me was so clear today. “Poor Tired Man, Poor Tired Writer. You have to stop.”

This week, I got up every morning at 3 or 4 a.m. and worked all day and into the night to finish the final draft of my next book “Talking To Animals.” I love writing early in the dark, it is the best time to write a book and work on it. I went through 368 pages, added a chapter or two, answered several hundred queries, approved as many deletions, some of the large, some of them small.

My editor is thoughtful and thorough and unrelenting, as good editors should be. I sent it back to the publisher this afternoon, and I will be honest, I am exhausted. I went out and sat in a rocking chair by the back fence and the garden, Red and  I lay down there together and just stared out at the donkeys and at Chloe, our pony for half-hour or so.

We went to the Round House, it is pizza and music night, but everyone kept looking at me and saying I looked exhausted and Maria said I was pale and drawn so we came home, and I’ll rest. It was intense work, and I loved doing it and I’m happy about it. But my muse is correct, the poor man is tired, too many days and night at that screen, I’m seeing double. Got some good books to read. And a class to teach tomorrow. Riches, riches, riches.

If you look at my muse, you will see what I mean, it is evident.