I’m on the iPhone again, searching for the perfect first sentence. Words in my head, mine, Mary Karr’s, Anne Lamott’s, whoever else I might be reading, they swirl, looking for release into the tiny screen where I’m always writing. Years of starts and stops have ended, my minutes now filled with a constant stream of images, ideas, stories. Memoir one day, blog the next, consistency like meditation, like cardio, only 44 years to get here. Reading Nick Flynn by flashlight, his cold nights in Boston visceral as my 5th grade Hobbit. The journey inside imagination used to be easier then, before all the distractions, the commodified television of life. I walk through dialogued streets of San Francisco, little bits of people flying out in all directions, particles I see, sometimes catch. The longer work, the life story is in a West Village bar now, tales never told in the blog. Like pedaling up hills, the only rule, keep legs moving, words steady, destination unknown.