Most people probably don't pay attention to such things, but anyone who does may have noticed a couple changes to the cover of What I Came to Say since last month when I announced the title of my next book, which is atop the right sidebar if you're reading on a laptop or down below my bio if you're on a "smart" phone or tablet.

(Actually, the latest version of the cover is under the subject line, isn't it?)

I'm a practitioner of "morning pages" in my journal — three pages of more-or-less stream-of-consciousness writing first thing in the morning to stir the creative juices and get my early-morning thoughts out on paper and out of my system. As you might expect if you have followed me for any length of time, some of Tuesday morning's musing was once again chastising myself for unfinished business.

For example, it's two weeks since I decided to devote Saturday's blog to the ongoing story of Allen the Alien. When I made that decision, I had completed Chapters 4 and 5, and my Tuesday morning self-flagellation was how I had not yet produced Chapter 6 for this coming weekend. For what it's worth, I wrote Chapter 6 before sitting down to write this post.

I also have started another whimsical little bit of fantastical fluff that I am planning to turn into a series of short podcasts to be released once I have written and produced a "Season 1" of 10 episodes. More on that project if I ever write Episode 2 and beyond, which was another round of self-flagellation on Tuesday morning.

"Where does the time go?" I chided the guy in the mirror. "Down the drain, or rather, to the same place it has always gone and never to return, never to be changed, all those present moments squandered. The fruit of the spirit is blah blah blah blah and self-control. Self-control is last on the list but still a fruit of the spirit, and yet I can't seem to stop myself from having another snack, watching another YouTube video, playing another game of computer solitaire, or catching another episode of whatever I'm binging."

I reminded myself of the words of my poem and song "I'm Not Done": "I still have things to say and I don't know how I'll say them, but sure as I feel, I feel that I'm not done." And I reminded myself that I wrote a song called "Refuse to be Afraid" 30 years ago, which became the title of a book 16 years ago, and that I wrote my most well-received short story, "Wildflower Man," 30 years ago, and I have made precious few attempts to bring those creative efforts to a wider audience in the meantime.

At this point I was about to bemoan my constant tendency to whining and self-flagellation without follow-up, when I caught myself and remembered the whole point of morning pages is to flush out the negativity and put myself in a better place for creative exploration.

"If I can exorcise these demons, recognize them as the demons they are, and sail past them, maybe I can say what I came to say, figure out how to say them, and build myself what legacy I can build in the time that's left."

"Making the most of the time that's left" — I realized that's the best candidate for a subtitle I've been able to conjure since I settled on a title for the book. And so that became the second tweak to the cover since I unveiled it last month — the first was to pull back the focus of the illustration from the black-eyed Susans to the guy taking the selfie, and the second was to add the subtitle.

No doubt there will be further tweaks as the project draws nearer to publication, whenever that may be. At this point my publication date is "sometime before Christmas," and my next goal is to make that a little more specific.

Here's how I finished my Tuesday morning pages:

"I have points to make, songs to sing, and stories to tell, and this morning I have the ambition to get started and get going. I so prefer this version of me to the one who struggles with melancholy and indolence. How do I bury that guy and fly with this guy? Probably by acknowledging they are the same guy, bearing with the sad lazy guy and encouraging the whimsical happily driven guy to take the wheel, with God's help."

It was a good start to the day. I did mention I wrote "Allen the Alien," Chapter 6, before I sat down to write this post, didn't I?

I don't know how these thoughts come to me. It occurs to me that if I had been able to follow through on my original idea for superhero Myke Phoenix, then Myke Phoenix Magazine #445 would have come out this month.

Why it came to me is fairly simple — I saw that Amazing Spider-Man #1,000 is due at the comic book stores later this month, and that got me thinking about what an amazing milestone that is.

I have always been a fan of Lester Dent, the pulp writer who produced most of the 182 Doc Savage novels that were published from 1933 to 1949 in a magazine that was monthly for most of its run. In the late 1980s I imagined a monthly magazine that would feature a superhero of my own creation.

Myke Phoenix was/is the alter ego of Paul Phillips, a radio reporter who gains the ability to inhabit the body of a super-powered ancient hero named Mychus. Myke became the protector of Astor City, a medium-sized city somewhere in the Midwest.

Because I had a day job, I didn't think I could pump out a 50,000-word novel every month, but 10,000 words felt doable, and I figured that since comic books had displaced pulp magazines in the marketplace, maybe I could manage a pulp that takes about as long to read as the average comic book, to accommodate modern attention spans.

Starting around January 1990, I finished four episodes and a short story, and I conceived a fifth story, "The Puzzle of the Talking Dinosaur," which would reveal and introduce the arch-villain Deinonychus who had been behind much of the mayhem that had plagued Astor City in the first four stories. But in those days there was no way to self-publish books or magazines without expending a great deal of money, and so I let logistics scuttle the project before that fifth adventure, and I tucked it all away until I would have the money or the world changed, whichever came first.

I still didn't have the money in 2008, but the world changed. Print-on-demand services and the Kindle allowed me to publish The Adventures of Myke Phoenix for basically zero upfront cash, and the idea of a monthly feature tickled the back of my mind again.

It stayed back there until 2013, when I finally wrote a new Myke Phoenix story, "Song of the Serial Kisser." Not long afterward I came up with "Firespiders," which is now known as "Spiders of Fire" for reasons I forget. And then my brain finally shifted to a place where my original concept might kick in.

I wrote down 10 more story titles for what would be a 12-story arc, and in 2014 I wrote and published Myke Phoenix ebooks once a month from February through November, including by the way The Puzzle of the Talking Dinosaur. "I can do this," I realized, and I was having a grand old time until I failed to come up with a clear idea of where to take the series after that 12th episode. I did create a paperback edition of all 12 novelettes called Year of the Dinosaur, so named because Deinonychus was again the central villain.

When the corporation eliminated my day job in late 2016, I started publishing the novelettes in short books, most of them 64 pages, and developed the first 12 before I was offered a new newspaper job, so that plan stalled before I could begin actively marketing it.

Three more years went by, and by 2019 I figured I was done with Myke, so with a bit of rewriting, I collected all 16 novelettes and two short stories into a 732-page behemoth titled Myke Phoenix: The Complete Novelettes, which is still available on print-on-demand to this day.

I think about Myke from time to time — I've even tinkered with the idea of a novel or two, so that I don't turn "The Complete Novelettes" into false advertising. Will he ever return? I can't say — not because I'm being coy, I just don't know where the muse is taking me these days.

Part of me is disappointed I was only able to maintain a monthly schedule for 10 months. Part of me is proud to have maintained a monthly schedule for 10 months. Those are the conflicting ways of looking at the idea of Myke Phoenix Magazine #445.

I have a loveseat that faces my stereo set with its turntable and CD deck, in front of the windows that face the road and the highway up the hill. In the predawn darkness, the traffic from here to there and back is a series of white and red and yellow lights racing north and south. Everyone outside the window is on a mission to get somewhere/

They will probably reach their destinations, but there are no guarantees. The lack of a guarantee is motivation enough to push on toward the destination through any storm and any reluctance or resistance.

Here behind the glass, I set my imagination free.

I see a fairy tale setting, a house in the woods that could be built of gingerbread, or is it a rainy city alley with a rodent in my face — and why am I close enough to the ground that I am face-to-face with a rat? — or am I flying over the clouds (must be a storm down there), on my way to the next adventure, or do I fly so often that I don't even bother to look out the window while I bathe in resentment that I am not somewhere else, anywhere except this steel, coffin-like tube?

Is that a common theme rolling across the fruited plain — disappointment that we are not somewhere else or someone else? In wishing for another place or another identity, do we miss the magic in the here and now?

I write with a grateful heart with my right hand while a golden retriever licks my left hand and settles in beside me. I contemplate the restlessness in the land while rubbing a gentle dog's shoulders. Why would I want to be somewhere else or someone else?

And there, perhaps, is the root of the restlessness: We want to be home, not flitting about from destination to destination. In the midst of every wild adventure is a yearning to be home with a golden retriever's nose on our knee.

That's why there are so many songs about going home and hymns about coming home after our trials are done. Home is shelter where our loved ones wait. We want to see the world and have adventures, but then we want to come home or find a home. The search for home — the instinct to make a home — is a powerful one.

And now Allen was alone with Ellie.

"You spoke of needing something to be done," Allen said. "What is this 'necessary' thing you want the federation to do?"

"We're all just so tired of all the fighting and bickering on our planet," said Ellie. "We need to unite under one gentle and benevolent leader, and I was wondering how you all could play a role in that."

"Do you have a particular gentle and benevolent leader in mind?"

Ellie's wide smile grew even wider. "Why, me, of course."

"I understand," said Allen. "Well, I just told you that we don't believe in bosses and we let each member planet go its own way."

"Oh, I don't want to boss anyone around," Ellie said. "I just want to end all the divisiveness and make peace."

"That will be up to you and your people," Allen said. "As I said, we don't typically interfere in each other's business."

Ellie was still smiling with her face, but her eyes seemed to grow darker.

"I see," said she. "Well, I guess that's how it has to be."

"Correct," said Allen.

TriSight and Count Duckula returned.

"The boy is safe," said TriSight.

"As he always would have been even without a babysitter," said Count Duckula, who seemed a little irritated.

"Oh, I was hoping you boys would get to know each other along the way," Ellie said.

Duckula and TriSight looked at each other and something was exchanged without words.

"We do understand each other better than we did before," TriSight said.

"Splendid!" Ellie said, and her smile grew even wider — but Allen thought her eyes grew even darker. "Well, we will leave you to it, then. Thank you, Emissary Allen, for your graciousness."

"I am in your service," said Allen.

"Apparently not," Ellie said, but then she shook her head. "I apologize, this has been a wonderful visit and truly historic. We have much to learn from you magnificent aliens."

They watched Ellie and the count walk away for a while, and then TriSight raised all three eyebrows. "What was that all about?"

"It appears Tommy's advice was sound. We have much to discuss with Fearless Leader," Allen said. "But first, tell me why you said you understand each other better than you did before."

"Ah, yes," said TriSight. "We had a very enlightening conversation."

So it seems to be more complicated than, "OK, I'm going to sit down and write something now," because your brain goes, "I don't know what to write," and you say, "write anything except nothing," and the next thing you know, you've doodled the word "SOMETHING" in big block letters with googly eyes and duck faces all around it and maybe a little shading around the edges of the letters, and then you write about the weather, how it's cloudy out and you sure wish the sun would shine and that it would cool off or warm up (depending on what time of year it is), and you keep on moving your fingers to spill words onto the page, sometimes for pages and pages of incoherent nothingness, and what do you know all of a sudden you're in the Arctic searching for a lost shipwreck, and just as you're giving up hope the sun comes out from behind a cloud and there's the wreck just where you expected it to be, but suddenly the villain is standing in your way aiming to snatch your victory away, or maybe you're a young child racing across a field of wildflowers with not a care in the world except to get your mom's batch of cookies over to the neighbors, when all of a sudden you realize the neighbor won't know if you're bringing a dozen cookies or 10 and they sure smell good.

But if you don't move your fingers and you don't write nonsense until it starts to make sense and tell a story, well then, I hope you have a nice day even though you didn't write anything. I'm just here to tell you that nothing is nothing and nonsense is something, and something is better than nothing almost every time. And if you're hoping that maybe this is the time that nothing is better than something (I did say almost), well, yes, and maybe this is the time you win a million bucks in the lottery, too.

Then there are the days when you stare at the wall searching for something to say, and the wall gives you a belligerent scowl and says, "What are you looking at?"

And you look at the calendar thinking it's Monday and the calendar says, "It's Labor Day. It's a holiday. Take the day off."

Then you notice Tuesday will be the 60th anniversary of the first airing of Star Trek, and the only ideas you have for the blog are more appropriate for tomorrow.

And you reach the conclusion that your only idea today is to write a "place holder" post that serves no other earthly purpose than to preserve the streak of consecutive daily posts.

"Well, I haven't done one of those for a pretty long time," you say, while the wall and the calendar roll their eyes.

Happy Labor Day, one and all.

Sept. 8, 1966. The family gathers around the black-and-white television set to watch the debut of a new show about the crew of a ship that explores outer space. Over the opening credits, the ship's captain explains that its mission is to "seek out new life and new civilizations" out there "where no man has gone before."

We were a family that loved science fiction. Forbidden Planet was one of my mom's favorite movies, and Dad buried himself in E.E. "Doc" Smith's acclaimed Lensman series. The night after Star Trek premiered on NBC, we sat down to watch another science-fiction show debut over at ABC, The Time Tunnel. Those were heady days for sf fans.

My memory is that my brothers and I, all navigating our teenage years, were more impressed by the first episode of The Time Tunnel. That opinion changed over coming weeks as one series offered a range of thought-provoking adventures while the other quickly became repetitive and eventually sort of dumb.

For a long time I wondered why, with at least a half-dozen episodes already filmed, the producers decided to introduce Star Trek with "The Man Trap." On the surface it's little more than a horror story about a monster that disguises itself to lure victims and suck their blood. On the other hand, the story lures the audience into some degree of sympathy with the monster, and the creature's defeat comes with a degree of sadness. This was a more nuanced tale than the man-versus-monster episodes of Lost in Space and other science-fiction offerings of the time.

In any case the characters and themes of Star Trek led to a great deal more than almost anyone could have imagined on the night of Sept. 8, 1966. Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock and their crewmates are now the stuff of popular legend, and that original series has spawned 11 more TV shows, more than a dozen movies and hundreds of stories.

It's hard to believe that when Arthur Conan Doyle wrote a novel called A Study in Scarlet in 1887, he could have known that Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson would still be familiar names almost 150 years later. Likewise, the producers of Star Trek probably knew they had created something special, but could they have imagined a gala 60th-anniversary celebration on this scale?

It has been a fun roller-coaster ride through 79 original episodes, cancellation, revival through syndication of reruns, a cartoon and a motion picture, and arguably the coup de grace that cemented the franchise's future, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan.

Much has been said about this anniversary and how much this ambitious TV show has affected the world. I'm just thrilled to have been one of the millions of kids who was there, sitting in front of the TV set when Star Trek was broadcast for the first time.