I was up all night last night, sick as a dog from the birthday dinner I made. I think it was all the rich pasta coupled with organic coffee! Please, do not ever let me have coffee again.

But in my sickness, unable to sleep, I tried to pull a Stephen King and think of what I would want to write in my novel. I thought a lot about Anne of Cleves and some other topics, and I just don't have anything that stands out yet. I might have to spend some weekends in the university library and sort things out, look through some titles and articles. There's got to be something good out there to mold.

There just aren't enough days left until Christmas. I have way too much packing to do.

Is it 2004 yet?