I have the occasional thought, as I drive in my old, noisy truck or walk through my neighborhood, that could possibly turn into a decent narrative. These little would-be gems fly back out of my cavernous, echoing brain (there’s not much of substance up there, I’m afraid) as soon as they enter, very much like the frantic little birds who sometimes accidentally fly into my kitchen. I don’t think I’m the only person to whom this happens. This only makes me feel marginally better about it. So, I recently asked Santa for a device which might help: a tape recorder. I’ll be a dictating fool. I’ll be one of those people who talks incessantly to absolutely no one in her car as all of you normal folk look on in amusement. The problem is that Santa brought me some other stuff, but not the tape recorder.I still intend to procure one because, I have a feeling that with a little help in the recollection department these days, I’ll get a bit further on the road to feeling like A Real Writer.