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I’m sitting around these days with a lot of nothing to do. I used to joke that I could qualify for a Ph.D. in doing nothing.

But there really is quite a lot involved in being able to go almost 24/7 doing nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

I could slip away or, better yet, do nothing right here, without distraction of any kind that otherwise might, well, distract me from my ultimate target of doing nothing.

As a writer, I often seem to do nothing for long periods of time. I can, and often do, just declare that I am writing. This is, frankly, how most of the work of a writer is conducted, by sitting and thinking or going somewhere to do some sort of research.

The nice thing about all this, you see, is that no one else can ever prove you were not working all along.

Sure, you reply, but sooner or later, you must produce a result, namely in the form of a written product.

My answer: Hogwash! Horsefeathers! Balderdash! Poppycock! (Typical writers’ words, you may note.)

I offer J.D Salinger and Harper Lee as examples. Salinger became a most famous recluse, never producing another official written product in the second half of his life.

And Lee wrote no more. Her “second” novel has been said to be what she submitted before “To Kill A Mockingbird;” it had all of the same characters exhibiting different character.

Of course, a writer can always blame his editor for spiking what had been written.

So now you understand more about why I enjoy all these hours spent sitting at Riverwinds Point Park in West Deptford and watching the river go by. (It’s kind of like watching the submarine races with no physical contact involved.)

Of course, these same apparent inactive activities work for songwriters, poets, philosophers and artists.