Word rationing...

...is in effect here today.

I have to save most of them for work, as I'm looking at three long pieces due by the end of next week*.

Moreover, the piece I'm working on now has become singularly strange. Perhaps my mental state is getting worse faster than I thought, but this assignment is unbolting all sorts of long-closed doors in my head for reasons I don't understand and couldn't fully explain if I did know what's up.

I'm still suffering the effects of transferring myself from six days of heavy socializing back to relative isolation, too.

For once -- and this is rare, believe me -- there's a little trepidation about what the editor will think when she reads this piece on Monday. She has always liked it when I let the words roll and put myself into a free-association Death Dive, but this one may be too far out in left field for her.

I blame her. She wanted the story, wanted me to write it. She would not have accepted it if I hadn't agreed to deliver the words.

And I need to return to cranking out the verbiage. I have a lot I want to say, but schedule and prudence are working against that right now.

Later, maybe, if I get far enough along that I can break from it, and if I decide I need to ingest a hefty jolt or two of Mr J Beam's distilled beverage, The dam may burst and my demented ravings might show up here.

Don't know whether all y'all should be eager or apprehensive about that.

* Okay, a newspaper reporter wouldn't blink at having to do 3500-4000 words in six days. For me, it's a lot, and I'm a tad grumpy as a result.