Drat!

Silly me. It looks like I've locked my key inside my office again. Behind this door is my writing desk, my fountain pens, my typewriter and the key I need to get through.

There won't be any writing today. I won't scribble a word. How frustrating! I had the most fantastic idea for a novel. It had one of those unreliable narrators. You know, the sort of person you have to second guess. I always loved reading peices like that.

I'll have to call the locksmith again on Monday when he's back at work. I'll just jot down a reminder to get in touch with him then...Heavens! My pencils and good stationary are trapped in my office. Oh what a shame. What a dreadful shame. I'll never remember to call without my little reminder.

I'm told the only difference between a writer and someone who wishes they were a writer is that a writer writes. It would be misleading to fancy myself a writer without committing words to paper. I suppose I'll have to be a writer next week.