Certainly I am not alone in finding that international air travel is a bit…trying. It wears you down. Your head fills with goo.
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I am positively gleeful to know that while everyone else is barbecuing tomorrow, I will be listening to my writing playlist and hashing this beast out.
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I was not right the moment my alarm went off, and not just because of the existential crisis brought about each morning my iPhone screams at me.
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If I think of a tweak, an improvement, a mistake I can correct, why would I force myself to ignore it? That’s straight silliness.
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But the horse must come before the cart. And making that horse move was a goddamn slog today.
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My first scene features an ugly speech. I don’t mean to say here that an evil character says evil things or that a righteous character has some unpleasant truths to convey. The speech is repellent because it is written so poorly. A fetid and unruly clunker of a paragraph.
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My previous attempts at novels have all had an A and a Z with nothing in between. Not so much as an LMNOP. I meandered. I despaired. I turned to unenthusiastic and too-frequent masturbation.
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This blog is the nothingness into which I will scream and spit and swear as I write my first novel. I am 44 years old. I have written many poems. I think two of them were good. When I say good, I mean not toilet paper, strictly speaking. I have taken several whacks at the same book. Each time I’ve gotten a third of the way in and found myself lost. This blog is not about that book. Fuck that book. Fuck it hard and don’t buy it dinner but maybe come back to it one day because of masochism.
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