I open a crisp white page. I find myself at a loss. I feel as if my touch is gone, even though I know better than most that touches don’t go away so easily, no matter how many times you pound your head against the wall, rarely does it rattle the gray matter. Without talking about the pain and failures of my progress, I find little to say.

Sander was not a writer even though he played one on television. He really did. He starred in the B-comedy “Writing Places” about three struggling writers living together in New York City. Sanders played the right angle of the love triangle. He loved Rachel, who had a confusing crush on Tommy and discussed her infatuation with Sander. Sander gave good advice, but his face always gave away his feelings toward her. Tommy was ambivalent, of course, and we (the audience) did not know whether he had any interest in Rachel or women in general.

Tommy was the real writer of the group. He had published in a few magazines and was working eight hours a day on his first novel. Rachel wrote screenplays and talked about moving to Los Angeles, but never did, working as an editor at a small neighborhood newspaper. Sander worked in a chicken outfit for a fried chicken chain. He spent more time complaining about writing than writing. He never finished a story, and most episodes revolved around his daydreams as he turned his real life into voice-over words, which, we find out the next episode, he never wrote down, or if he did, he quickly crumpled up and let die. By the way, Sander’s name on the show was Sander—I thought I should clarify that.

A trend in my writing: My ADHD limits what I can say on a subject before boredom subsumes me. Case in point: (I’m in a colon type of mood) I’m writing this section on the subsumption of boredom and I flip to send mails. What I start to realize is that concentrating long enough on an idea to add flesh to its bones will make me a better writer. I read Chuck’s last entry with interest.