At last, a product to fill the gap in the vast novelty pregnancy test market: just pee in the half-scale magic eight ball, snap it shut, wait two minutes, and give it a good shake.
What have I been doing, not just in the last month but since, well, draw a line back as far as you care to reach. I’m not gonna say. The main thing is that it wasn’t writing, at least not enough of it. For the last few couple months I have been editing, picking off the low-hanging fruit of unfinished stories, and, mixing metaphors, saving up the lumpy little seed pearls of ideas that won’t shine off each other when strung together. And I have been chicken-shit-scarred of the new novel, not even letting myself get all day-dreamy about the characters, which, you know, kind of impairs the process.
But today — oh, yeah. Today a down-list project (opening monologue written two, almost three years ago) decided to muscle it’s way to the front of the queue. And damn if it isn’t ready to go now, no further fucking around tolerated, there is a story to be told, hallelujah and amen.
And the best part is that a wrote the last scene today. This is my thing: if I have Point A and Point B, and can make it though all the weirdness of the square root of 2 (damn, I wish I could that in ASCII).
Back to weirdness, hooray.