Sunday was Danish Day at the Danish American Center in Minneapolis. You may recall that I came out of that event damaged last year, with a finger broken. This year I’m OK, largely because I did no fighting at all. There were a couple young guys to carry the load, and I’m still trying to fight off this bronchitis that’s draining my energy like a gestating alien in my chest cavity.

Sold a few books, and one of my buyers expressed interest in becoming an author. I tried not to encourage him too much, since only a sadist would point anyone in the direction of that pitiless muse.

“Being an author would be great,” he said. “You could travel all over the world and deduct it!”

I had to burst that little bubble, as it was burst for me long years since. “Unfortunately, that’s not true,” I said. “If you travel to attend a professional conference, or do a lecture, or something like that, you can deduct it. But just going someplace to get local color for your story—the IRS considers that a vacation, and you can’t deduct it.”

I could see the hope die in his eyes.

Which is, of course, a good thing.

Tonight I am prepping, in a way I shall not detail, for a medical text I shall not identify, scheduled for tomorrow morning. If I don’t post anything in the evening, it’ll be because I’m too mellow.