Yesterday, I wrote 1,180 words on the still untitled story. It was my best writing day in over a month. Slowly, I am recovering. I probably slept a solid six and a half hours last night. Not ideal, but perfectly functional.
“Fiction is just a constant torment, and an embarrassment. I loathe my fiction.” ~ John Banville
It has now been twenty years, today, since the last worst Xmas Eve of my life, 7,305 days ago. Elizabeth had died on August 3rd, and I was pretty much a ghost. I was living in Athens, Georgia, at the Carriage House. The woman who was my roommate at the time, she went back to Birmingham for Xmas with her family. It was a Sunday. After the sun went down, I worked on Chapter Thirteen of Silk, writing the vile black heart of the novel, the rape of Spyder Baxter. And, finally, about 10:30 p.m. I'd had enough, and I drove to a nearby theater and saw two movies, back to back: Joe Johnston's Jumanji, followed by Michael Mann's Heat. A strange double feature if ever there were one, but I didn't actually care what the movies were. It was something to occupy my mind, something to help me not think about Elizabeth. And then I went home, and sometime before dawn I slept. The next day, I hung out with a bunch of other Xmas orphans in a coffee shop called Jittery Joe's, and then I went to the Manhattan and got drunk. Micheal Stipe was there. At the bar, I mean. It was the first time we met. And that was the most recent shittiest Xmas Eve of my life. Maybe the shittiest ever (1990 and 1991 are close behind it).
Oh, there's one other thing. The roommate gave me a tin of Whitman's chocolates, and the cover of the tin was Mucha's "Salmagundi" painting. Which led to...well, you know.
Now, I'm going to finish my coffee, and then I'm going to write. But first, I have this for you. Have fun.