He was set on having the day be its own story, and so far.. he didn’t want to leave the house. But he had to. Possibility of rain.. one detail. Another, a huge wave of papers landed yesterday. He thought, maybe, he ought to take a small stack to work with him. But no. Write on the lunch break, he thought. He looked left, out the sliding glass doors. And, grey. Write in details, and smaller sentences. The short story group he was putting together would be edited in such slopes, inclines, turns, roundabouts. He didn’t know what he was thinking, exactly, but he’d finish this book after all. And today’s chapter: about profitable– no, Mike hated that word, made him think of the industry, commerce, reducing Art to an item, bloody merchandise. USEFUL, then, paragraphs. So, he knew how he wanted it, the chapter, to end. “Maybe this is a novel, actually. Maybe I’m longer fiction rather than short. Maybe I need the pages, the higher counts…” OVERthinking, he thought. Just what he told his students NOT to do.