I wrote yesterday, but nothing worth saving. I have the first half of the book mapped out in my head, and a tiny bit on paper, but I've hit that stage-fright, performance-anxiety wall again. Today, I have to climb over it. I'm tired of waking up in the small, pre-dawn hours to fret over the progress that is not being made on The Tindalos Asset. There is no audience, and no one will ever read this book, and no one gives a shit, and I just have to write, and that is freedom.
As for 2017, it will not be missed. It was another wicked year, to be forgotten. But I wrote three stories I'm not ashamed of, at least there's that – "Tupelo (1998)," "Fairy Tale of Wood Street," and "The Dinosaur Tourist."
Last night, we watched the first half of Band of Brothers (2001), which I'd managed never to see. It's excellent.