Five hundred words.

This is the daily quota that JohnnyGoodYear reminds us that Graham Greene suggests we writers try and meet to stay in shape. And--good God!-- who would want to argue with Greene, possibly the most prolific and compellingly readable author of the prior century?

It’s just that . . . well, does it apply to playwrights? And does it apply to playwrights who often fervently wish they didn’t write at all? It seems to me this discipline that Greene demands, and GoodYear promulgates, presupposes a devotion motivated by . . . what? That one’s writing betters the world? Oneself? More often than not it seems to me that this sort of devotion requires a faith that I long ago forswore. I cannot abide a God that insists I believe in Him any more than I can dedicate myself to a vocation that demands I ante up all my dutiful attentions whether or not it feels meaningful to me. And yet . . . and yet . . . Here I am writing.

I promised I’d keep you all posted on the progress towards my second child’s birth ever since my wife lost her mucus plug three days ago. But now, with so little progress to report, I’m starting to regret it, in a way not unlike my regret of the vow I made to myself some decades back to be the best playwright possible.

We get caught.

We get caught in these ideas of ourselves and what it is we’re supposed to be doing. It’s all so noble I could be sick if I focused too long or too hard on it. We get into this writing business because we’re convinced that our minds might make the world a better place, and then we discover that the wisest men understand that the world needs no bettering.

We bring children into the world because, let’s face it: it’s fun— both to make them and then to be with them once they’re here. Only a fascist fool could honestly believe he has anything to teach a child, except maybe how to blow a bubble or use a kazoo.

So for now, I’m going to stick with this, through downvotes and upvotes, through your boredom and mine, through frustration and occasional elation, until I become a better playwright, a better writer, a better husband and father, a better man . . . or . . at least until the baby comes.

Okay, so about that, here’s the nitty-gritty: Heather went to the doctor today and was told that she’s dilated to 4 centimeters, and that her cervix is 50% effaced. And what does that mean in bottom line layman’s terms? Well, that she’ll be having a baby. Some time soon. How soon? Only the Credophage knows.

And I know yesterday I said I wasn’t anxious— but dammit!—it’s creeping up on me.

Come on, baby. Come on! You’re almost here.

And I am almost there . . . five hundred.