I’ve been wondering what to write. We are not traveling at present. Our political realm, I’m convinced, is coming right: while still apprehensive, I’m no longer petrified. Puppy Henry is an ample topic, but I must beware the monotony of a one-note Johnny. Likewise, I must beware preaching: I’m here as pal, not pastor. I’ve no creed to convince you of.

New acquaintances unfamiliar with this project ask what I write about. “Myself,” I respond with a sheepish grin. This is true of most writers, to a degree: as every word we utter defines us, so does every word we write. My self-revelation is more specific. I analyze myself as a sample of genus homo here and now. We all share the same story more or less. The similarities between our stories may interest, even surprise. The more I am like you, the more you will like me. We like those who are like us.

Unlike a painter or composer, a writer must write about something. Prose poem is an oxymoron. Blab bores. This need for a topic dispatches me in search of material. What might I say that might amuse? “The habit of expression,” groused Henry Adams, “leads to the search for something to express.”

Waking and sleeping I scan my consciousness for occasions. Sometimes I grow frantic, dreading the day I run out of things to say. After more than three thousand daily outings, I’ve exhausted certain themes, as Jane reminds me. “Not your father again!”

To merit your attention a topic must first entice. You are not a captive audience (the pastor’s advantage); I compete with a limitless throng for your time. For every sentence you keep me company I am grateful and incredulous, proud as a big game hunter who has bagged a lion, you are all so smart.

My take on a topic must differ enough to feel worth your while. The tiresome ubiquity of Trump for seven years has forced many a commenter to cudgel their wits for a fresh approach. I sometimes revert to alliteration and Latinisms in my invectives, so my language might entertain, even if my conclusion’s commonplace. Trump’s turpitude is so evident it astonishes me everyone doesn’t see it. MAGgots don’t read me, if they read.

Any topic I tackle I must rope into relevance. I can talk shop with poetry or music lovers, as many of you are, but if you’re not into such specializations why should you care? I’m haunted by the memory of a golf bore who monopolized a dinner party with a stroke by stroke recap of his back nine. Murder is not my usual remedy for irritation but in this case I’d have made an exception.

I must locate, too, the moral of my little story. Why might this meditation matter to another sentient soul? Our every choice is moral, that is, reflective of our attitude toward our fellow mortals. If I fulminate about today’s America, how might I fix it? What about Henry recalls humanity? Which way love? Those are conversations worth having.

I write to please. I need friends to convince myself I’ve a purpose. To converse is to befriend. I’ve no interest in friends who’ve no interest me: empty calories, why bother? These missives recruit soulmates, who share my delight and confusion at the adventure of being. Seeing to say makes my world more wondrous and amiable. I live to tell you about it.

Today I wrote about wondering what to write about because that was on my mind. Bless you for joining me.