The wind howls outside my hotel door. I can hear the surf as it pounds against Daytona Beach. It is dark now, no one walks along the sand, yet it calls me. For Florida, it’s cold. Not nearly as warm as the hopeful clothes I packed, I am enjoying being in the warm room working on the writing I’ve promised myself to complete by the time I go home. Today we took time off and drove up to St. Augustine. We stopped in to see the Fountain of Youth. I drank a glassful, hoping to feel the youth come bubbling back into me. But so far, my eyes look the same in the mirror, and my brain still stumbles over the words on the page. Perhaps I should go back and drink another glass. For now, however, the wind blows and I listen to its intensity against the door leading onto the deck. And I dream of Paris where my character will go when he’s ready.