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  • “OK,” said Old Jingleballicks as he flopped into my favorite chair and started to drink what was left of my beer. “Enough procrastination and rationalization. If you want to write something, now’s the time to start.”

    “Trouble is,” I said rather petulantly, “I can’t think of anything to write. That’s my beer you’re drinking, by the way, and my chair you’re sitting in.”

    “I thought it was kind of warm and flat — the beer, that is. Get yourself another instead of complaining. I’m a guest here. How about a little hospitality? This is a nice chair, though. As to that other business — the writing thing — just stop thinking. Start writing.”

    “Start writing what?”

    “Whatever you want to write.”

    “But I don’t know what that is.”

    “I don’t know what that is either. I’ve get better things to do with my right foot than planting it up your rudder to get you started.”

    “Yeah, yeah, yeah… No help from Old Jingleballicks, eh?”

    “Is there anything to eat around here?” Old Jingleballicks stretched, yawned, belched, and patted his stomach. “I must say, you’re not much of a host.”

    “Well, you’re not much of a Muse. You fried up my last can of corned beef hash half an hour ago.”

    “Why don’t you read Sweet Thursday? That Steinbeck guy didn’t portray me as much of a Muse, either. But I delivered the goods at the end, didn’t I?”

    “Steinbeck? Who’s he?”

    “Take a look. If you’re so hot on writing something, you might find something you can steal there.”

    “Well, it might be a start.”

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