Park yesterday, followed by vampyre plot twisting, then talking with singers about powerful female rockers, the Bleecker Street curse of "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Me and Bobby McGee," Asian tourists requesting "The Green Green Grass of Home," and other strangenesses. I may be actually making new musical connections, which would be a goodness.

Gym this morning, contemplating a woman doing reps on the same machine for about a half-hour. Resisted the urge to say, "Trust me: your legs won't change shape in only one session. I've tried it."

Work, reflection, and deciding whether to keep batting away the story idea that's fluttering around, or to hold still and get a good look at it when it lands, and then decide whether or not to bat it away. There are days when I want to tell the Muses, "I'm not a real writer, damn it! Go torment someone else!"

But they never listen to me, anyway. So I might as well surrender.