Haven't written in two days because of the mess in the US.  Have opened Quoll, tidied the end of one chapter and opened another - but am having trouble getting started.  So best to drivel away in here for a bit and see if things start flowing.  I think writing is a bit like drawing.  In art, it's not training the hand, learning to control the hand and fingers to make marks, it's learning to see and then translate what's seen onto the page with marks.  Making up stuff to draw is the same, still drawing what the mind's eye sees and placing it on the page with marks.

Writing?  I can see the end of the last chapter.  I see the characters dispersed around the room.  I remember the last thing said - and there everything stops.  I can't see what happens next.  Doesn't help I've had very little sleep (again).  Stupidly oh so stupidly had a strong coffee at 4pm.  What did I expect?  

Maybe it was the coffee which contributed to a sexual dream that had no sex.  Dreamed an odd dream in that it was entirely linear; one moment leading logically to the next.  No tangents or weird time or place jumps.  It was like a little vignette.  And there was a man.  He was so clearly drawn I would recognize him anywhere although I've never seen him before.  That was the weird part.  How vivid he was, not handsome, burly, in his 50s or a well perserved 60ish.  And he wanted me and I him but I told him my first responsibility was to Richard.  "And then me," he said.  

And I awoke feeling very much alone and longing for male company.  For lovemaking yes, but more for that male energy.  Men I see in day to day life are friends or husbands of friends, or people in stores etc.  There's no touching, holding, hugging.  I hug Richard every day but it's a one sided hug usually or if it the hug is returned, it's usually, although not always, wishy washy.  

The importance of touch.  I know that. I act on that for Richard.

But who touches me?