November 11th, 2007


Microwave Cordon-Bleu hobby kit

It's Sunday. So the Xtians are wailing. If I were a real American, I'd call the cops.

To have spent pretty much all day and night yesterday drinking Bailey's, I feel surprisingly okay.

Anyway, I am in that place where Joey LaFaye has completely stalled out on me. The prologue was the wrong beginning. It was leading off with the wrong scope. Too epic, when this has always been, in my head, a very personal story, mainly about two characters. All that epic shit can stay in the background, hinted at, but when it starts marching out onto the stage, right there for all to see, I know I'm headed the wrong way. And this means last week was a waste, as far as getting this novel written is concerned. It means I have not yet truly started. I suspect writers who are not afraid of producing a "bad first draft" are far more fond of tedium and paperwork than am I. Anyway, I will begin again tomorrow.

I ended up, last night, wearing a mismatched heap of rags, lying on the sofa, listening to Byron explain how the "new 3-D" is different from the "old 3-D." Oh, and we watched Torchwood and then watched Fight Club again. The thing about Fight Club — I mean besides my lust for Marla Singer — is that it's the first movie that Spooky and I ever saw together (in a theatre). We were in Birmingham, Alabama, and we were the only two people in the theatre laughing, which says a lot more about Birmingham than about the two of us. Regardless, it was four o'clock before I went to bed. I took a piece of an Ambien so I'd forget the dreams.

Today is a Day Off. But despite all the damned work, I don't feel like I've earned it, because there are no good, usable pages to show for the week. I am the pages I write.

I'm gonna go sit in front of a mirror and practice smiling.