The life of a writer on Thursday has devolved into significant patterns. Since I write on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, I get used to a routine of coffee with friends, going to the gym, and putting so many words to paper prior to Christine arriving home from work commencing parlor time. I don’t know if it’s this winter or lack of sun for weeks, but by Thursday, my life is rift with a depression that I can only shake by getting the hell out of my inner psyche and developing characters where I can cozy into a vicarious cocoon. I suspect I’m not alone in that genre of people who work independently and alone. I also suspect that I am not alone when it comes to weeks without sunshine. I do go outside everyday. I do exercise and eat cleanly. And yes, I do have a scotch or two during the day this time of year which I know in the aggregate adds to the brain’s mood swings; however, I am not the writer I am without my vices including the sweater and music. If those kill me, oh well. The only glimmer of hope, as I headed to the Thursday skids this week, was that President-Elect Trump would be impeached before he took office. His wanton disregard of the Constitution regarding his business, his obvious well-covered connections with foreign powers that eased him into the election within a gullible republic, his overt racist and hawkish cabinet picks, all place progress – we’ve seen in humanity since 1965 – in great jeopardy. With that hope squashed, I went ahead and wrote a novel about a serial killer. Interesting how the mind works. Perhaps soon enough the sun will shine, my mood will brighten and butterflies will appear, but for now, the life of a writer on Thursdays will be rift with emotional upheaval and bring about more words on paper uncovering the evil of the unconscious.