Can one achieve art by writing for a few minutes, hours, daysand days? Can it be art if it's like the tree that falls before no one else's eyes? Can my eyes see my own artfulness? Can I trust what I see? These questions pester my pondering, painful approach to getting something accomplished in this write-a-thon. The mountain of doubt I live on is suddenly evident and no longer hidden beneath the daily plod. So far, I've restructured the meaning of one of my poems and started a short story. But having done so I don't feel the wonder I expected. What did I expect? But better yet, what am I getting? See the above AND add a wonderful sense of collegiality from Facebook convivialities. I've already been to Kississame, FL and back, sent photos, seen pictures of the faces whose writings I intend to meet. And don't forget, Nicola, man we all owe her a beer or two or ... Okay, so things aren't so bad and I've written and thought about what to write for three days. What I expected is this feeling of failing I sometimes find my self . . .