Today is the birthday of the writer H.G. Wells, who was born in 1866 in England.  He and I have little in common, because he left his wife and ran off with another woman, and I would never do something like that. I believe in keeping promises and not betraying people.  But some say he did it because he’d been sick and was afraid of death, so he ran for his life and wrote three famous novels in three years. Which is where he and I completely diverge in terms of character. I don’t tend to panic, and my writing is like mole asses in January; like nailing jell-o to a tree.

Still, maybe I can learn something from Wells. Nobody has the promise of being alive tomorrow. Everybody’s on his way someplace else. So shouldn’t I have a greater sense of urgency? If so, why am I writing this, instead of working on a serious writing project? 

In the words of Herman Melville, “Hey Ahab, blog this!”