Spending pleasant, sunny days indoors. Collating notes, cross checking references, typing out draft ideas. Utterly ignoring the world outside (and online). Not really in the mood to associate with anyone or imbue the abundance of life which lies just outside my door. Isolation and infatuous concentration. I haven't shaved in days. I barely recall bathing. I ate something yesterday late-afternoon. My overused coffee mug streaked in brown film and tepid liquid. Ash tray over-flowing with smoldering butts. Hours slowly pass with my mind reeling in thought as I sit staring at a blank Word Doc screen. This is the 'glamorous' life of a writer.