Tonight was the same chapter. Some more staring.

The thing is, everything I want the chapter to say and accomplish is on the page. All the elements I thought it needed all there, and getting tuned rather well, since I keep staring at it.

But, there is something missing, something not right under the surface, something in its tone that just makes it not work. It may benefit from getting put away and looked at when I ahve fresh eyes again. Sometimes, you do that, and the thing is so obvious you feel stupid.

So, tomorrow, we’re going back to writing something new, editing *other* pieces, and then in a week or two, we’ll pick this one up again and see what’s wrong with it. The chapter ends with a clear hook into what the chapter after will be, so it’s not like I’m writing linear to the point where if I don’t finish this chapter I can’t move forward.

I can, and am, tomorrow.

Still listening to a lot of Nine Inch Nails when I write, that part never changed. The Becoming is, err, becoming one of my favorite tracks lately, both the version on Downward Spiral and the version on Still. *love* all of Still.

I used to quote from The Becoming in the book, specifically:

it won’t give up it wants me dead
goddamn this noise inside my head

But, the more I listen to it, the more I focus on the verse that seems to encapsulate my aggressive pursuit of writing lately:

I can try to get away but I’ve strapped myself in
I can try to scratch away the sound in my ears
I can see it killing away all my bad parts
I don’t want to listen but it’s all too clear

Of course, when I pay attention to the lyrics playing while I’m writing, that is a bad sign. I don’t play music as a form of amusement here. It is specifically in the background to force focus. The goal is to fight against the music and force my brain to push past it.

Let’s see, this needs a better example. If you’re watching Survivor, at many times during the show, you’re apt to let your mind wander. Did I finish my homework? Was I supposed to return so-and-so’s call tonight? All this incessant chatter that fills our lives. Now, if you were watching Survivor, and in the same room, your mother started vaccuming, and you turned up Survivor so you could still hear it, you wouldn’t miss a word or move they made, because the vaccum is forcing you to focus on the show. You couldn’t think about your homework, calling so-and-so, and the show with the vaccum running.

Same with the music here. When the writing is at its best, it just this drone in the background and I don’t make out a word Trent screams, and I am totally immersed in the novel. If I hear Trent, I’m not focused. Without Trent, I would be far more likely to lose my focus.

It’s such a twisted little space I have to create here just to get any work done.

Oh well.

Peace,

Jeff

Tonight was another research day. Not reading a book this time, just online stuff. And some more writing. Just a night of randomness. But randomness that makes each subsequent writing day easier.

It’s still difficult for me to do all my research in advance, because the story does, on some level, dictate directions I didn’t plan for. Hey, I’m still new at this, give me a break. So, when the story veers, I end up having to stop writing, do some research, and then jump back to the writing.

I do dislike disrupting the flow of writing, but after this draft, people (a very select few) are actually going to get to read it, so I can’t be leaving holes for things to research.

In some way, though, I suppose this method makes sense given that the book is being told in encapsulated vignettes. Basically every chapter is a short story, so if I look at it as research for this short story, I guess it doesn’t diminish that I haven’t researched the book properly or anything. Beating yourself up is a good thing, though, no?

The other downside is that when I work on a bunch of tangental randomness, I am left with much fewer cohesive thoughts for this diary, since I’m not bumping up against one issue all night prior to writing it.

Oh well, tomorrow should be a full-on writing day. Famous last words.

Peace,

Jeff

Tonight was a mixed bag, evenly divided. I started, as I said I would, finishing the piece I was writing yesterday and giving it a good once-over and cleanup.

But in today’s mail was one of two books I ordered at half.com that I feel are research I need for this book that was lacking. The other scholarly, this one more a personal account and only 160 pages. So, after working on the writing/editing for 90 minutes. I blew through this book in two hours, ending up with 6 pages of handwritten notes to help flesh out the character in the book.

And, the main thing that crossed my mind was: if this had ever been an assignment in school, you would have put this off as long as humanly possible.

But now, doing it for myself, I gladly curled up on the couch, pen and paper in hand, scribbling notes from the book to help make the book better. Now, I didn’t read all 160 pages, as there were passages that had absolutely nothing to do with my book. My protagonist is single and not in a relationship, and several chunks of the book talk about how it affected his wife and kids. So, I skipped them, etc. But, the character is coming into better focus. We’ll see what the other book has to offer when that arrives.

What’s even more amusing than me putting such serious pursuit into something like this is the topic I was researching. I can’t really say what it is, but let’s put it this way, there’s a reason I needed to read a book on this topic. It is so not me. So, I’m researching for the protagonist with something that is so not me. I know all novelists are supposed to make themselves the main character, but other things will make this a richer story, so I’m running with them.

Got all the chapters all ready and printed, ready to go out and be edited while I wait for Chuck’s reading/signing. Should be a fun time.

One thing I also noticed today, which I’m not sure I ever fgured out before: Ms. Pac Man was a total slut.

For those of you who don’t know, Ms. Pac Man is the greatest videogame ever created, and I play a few rounds before, during, and after writing every day. Between levels, there are small animated sequences to basically give your hand a few seconds to relax.

In the first sequence, it is called “They Meet,” and Pac Man and Ms. Pac Man bump into each other for the first time, and a small heart appears over them.

In the second sequence, it is called “The Chase,” and basically it alternates between her chasing him, and him chasing ehr back and forth across the screen. It is important to note, though, that she chases him first.

Now, when I play Ms. Pac Man, it is typically to divert my mind. It is boring, achingly easy game, so I can play it while my mind is figuring out a scene or what’s missing or whatever else I need. That is why I play it and not some game where I can only carry six items and I have to decide whether to discard the knife or the lantern so that I can pick up more energy. That would be too much work and I wouldn’t be thinking about my writing, I would be thinking about the game. Hence, Ms. Pac Man.

That said, I’m not a great player, and I rarely get to the fourth level, which means I rarely see the third animated sequence. Today, in rare form, I saw it (the game ending very quickly thereafter). It is called “Junior,” and in it, the stork brings Mr. and Ms. Pac Man a kid.

Now, I’m not expert on courtship, but isn’t this a bit fast? There was no “The Date” no “The Wedding.” You can’t even really figure out if they are married. I mean, she is Ms. Pac Man, so does that mean she just doesn’t want to say whether she’s married or single? Is she divorced? For all we know she’s just going to raise him as a single parent and the Mr. is just there for visitation. Do we even know that Mr. Pac Man is the father? I mean, she’s the one who was chasing him in the second animation. This is a pre-AIDS game and all, but still, she sounds a bit too loose to me, with her fake mole, painted lips and bow. Hussy.

Namco should be really glad that Focus on the Family and such weren’t running rampant back then, as they are now, or they would have some serious explaining to do.

You wonder why there was a rise in teenage pregnancies in the 80s? It was all subliminal stuff like Ms. Pac Man telling girls it was OK.

Tomorrow’s update might be late, since dependent on when Chuck ends, I might catch a movie or something, but I will be sure to add something here. If not, double the fun on Saturday.

Peace,

Jeff

Today was productive, but I didn’t get much written. This is a unique chapter in many ways, and I’m sorting them out, but it will take a while.

The chapter is told through the viewpoint of the protagonist, but interpersed with e-mails from some of the less important characters. With every other chapter so far, it has been narrator, narrator, narrator. This chapter, as well, I just thought, well, the narrator reads the e-mails. But…

Every e-mail has to be a different voice that captures the unique humanity of the different, required moments to push the chapter along. So, if I’m writing four e-mails and the narrator, I am writing five characters, and it’s just something I haven’t done before.

My writing world is typically ego-centric (journalism, personal essays). There is one character, and it’s usually me. So, to have five characters, and none of them are me, and all of them need to be realistic. Well, let’s just say I think this chapter is the project for the week. It’s not going to be a quick one, but I think it will lay the groundwork for a lot of the book, because once we have defined characters in the book, they can be used in other group scenes to help move things along in a way that is better invested than “some woman says she doesn’t think it would be a good idea.” Besides, if I’m writing a bok with a main male lead character, and almost all the rest of the characters are women, well, I’m guessing it would be rather misogynistic to not name the random women just because they are only there to serve the plot.

So, down with the patriarchy!! We need to open this baby up!

And names? Oh, I think it will just about drive me crazy writing character names. It’s like a roadblock. Every name I come up with I think sounds fake, but of course, it is fake. It doesn’t even matter. I mean, once I write a character named, oh, I don’t know, {whoAmI - ” is logged in.”}. Now, I can keep writing the chapter using that name, and at any later date just say, why would I use that, I’d rather it be Oliver. And just change it.

But, for some reason, the names trip me up. I finally got around it, but it’s pretty weak as roadblocks go. I mean, why waste time like this.

There is an amusing story about naming that I’ll vaguely reference here. Initially, since there are so many female characters in the book, I thought it would be nice to use a lot of family names in the book. Now, there would be absolutely no correlation between that family member and this character, just a cool way to add something personal to the book and move on.

But then, my family read the “Chuck Palahniuk” interview, and my mother was shocked I would tell Chuck that she didn’t like fight club, and my grandmother still gets upset when she mentions the weather after Chuck, in the interview, kind of says he hates how family discussions all end up revolving around safe things like television and the weather. Now, Chuck said that, not me?!

So, seeing how they read so much into my writings, I think it would be… potentially traumatic if their names appeared in print, on a character that is not based on them in any way. The amount of analysis that could bring to the table just isn’t worth it. I mean, I already think my family will probably enjoy the book the least, because they won’t have the benefit of separating the author from the subject matter, so there’s no use making that even worse.

Anyone reading this diary in 2004, after having read the book, and wondering what the hell this cryptic entry means, and hoping I will now explain this entry directly, just drop me a line and I’ll sort it all out for you. There’s a much funnier story if I were to reveal the plot, etc., and tie all this stuff together. But, for everyone in 2002, this is all you get for now.

Peace,

Jeff

Lullaby by “Chuck Palahniuk” is sitting on my kitchen table. I can’t read it. I want to read it, but if I’m reading fiction, I’m not writing it, and right now writing it is going too well to mess that up. His publicist was supposed to get me an advance reader copy two months back, so I could have knocked it off before I knew I would be writing, but she didn’t, so that’s where things are.

Now, you might ask, why buy a book you want to read so badly, but can’t? Well, Chuck is coming to San Francisco Friday, so I’m going to his reading/signing, and obviously I’d rather get a first edition signed now, than buy a fourth edition unsigned copy in December when I finish my draft.

So, I’ll just have to wait. The words will not change between now and then. He will just be another book on the pile with Franzen, Chabon, Sebold, and Safron-Foer and all these other must-read books I have sitting on my shelf that I have yet to get to. But, I’ll tell you right now, when I finish this draft Chuck is first.

I’m also missing either karaoke tonight or a Melissa Ferrick concert, take your pick, I could have done both. I’m just a girl who can’t say yes. At least not lately.

Tonight, I wrote for a solid 2.5 hours and it just flowed effortlessly. I’m writing one of the most crucial scenes in the book, but I guess I’ve been subconsciously thinking about it a lot, because the text just happened. So, sometimes procrastination is really just a means of doing subconscious work, kids. Something to remember. OK, it’s usually just procrastination.

The writing was going so well tonight that I intentionally stopped abruptly. I saw resolution on the horizon, the chapter’s end drawing near, and it was approaching too quickly. So, I stopped almost in mid-sentence.

I feel sort of agitated now (a mood possibly helped along by my playing Ninch Inch Nails’ ‘closer’ and ‘the becoming’ on repeat for 2.5 hours), but moreso because I want to jump in and work the chapter out and get it all nailed. But, I know that if I don’t, I get to ride that delicious energy tomorrow right back to where I am now, without any foreplay. I will probably be itching to write tomorrow. Resolution is motivating, but coming at it fresh tomorrow, and knowing the energy will be sitting up waiting for me is too tempting to pass up. I want to stay up for the next three hours and finish this chapter and plant a flag on top of it to mark my accomplishment. But I won’t.

Instead, I saved the file. Quit out of Word. Am writing this. And then going to bed.

Only thing to note is that tomorrow’s field trip is off, so I will be writing at home again. I figured that since I will be going to Chuck’s reading on Friday, and that since he has become quite the rockstar author, I will need to get there rather early. So, I will be taking my printouts with me there for editing, since I plan to arrive 90 minutes before the reading. That will give me everything. Work is getting done. I’m out in the community, and then Chuck shows up at some point to top it off. Then, I’ll come home and finish, unless I get out of the reading early enough to catch a movie. We’ll see.

OK, bed time.

Jeff

Not as much writing today as I would have hoped, but any writing is progress, blah blah blah.

Read aloud and edited five different chapters, and really want to expand the chapter I’m working on now. Journalism has killed my ability to not rush. My first chapter drafts are always frenetic. I’m more apt to say ‘there’s 10 people in the room’ and rush toward the action of the scene than to linger for a moment and add some detail to humanize one or even all of them.

So, that’s my task for tomorrow, Monday, however long it takes. I want to make this next chapter incredibly human. It is probably the first chapter in the book where we meet a bunch of people who are not major players in the book, and although their humanity doesn’t really matter to the plot, I think it matters to me. I don’t want everyone to be a cog merely there to move the plot along. I want to give them some space to breathe and let them make the piece radiate humanity. That said, none of them will get to say too much. I mean, on some level, they are just there to move the plot along.

Today was a staring contest day, and I’m saddened to report that today, the first day since I started this diary, the computer won. Obviously, it has won in the past, but there was no record of it. I did edit a bunch of things, and I did write, but not at the level I would want.

I saw “Tim Miller” perform tonight, and I think that impacted my writing. I had planned to head home afterward and bang out text for two hours, but didn’t. Instead, I sat around and thought about the book I’m writing and how I’m delivering my message.

Tim is an amazing performer who weaves beautiful pieces out of his history and body, and he does it in a way that carries a warmth and love, although his pieces are also laced with tragedy. In December, he and his Australian-Scottish boyfriend will be forced to leave the United States when Alistair’s student visa expires. They will relocate in England, a place where gay couples are better accepted legally. Of course, being accepted as a gay couple at all would be a step above the United States. Tim also tells stories about people who were taken by AIDS. Tim was in San Francisco the first weekend after I moved here, and he served me a slice of orange during his performance at Josie’s Cabaret and Juice Joint, which was a sort of my first gay communion in San Francisco. Damn recovering Catholics and their fixed imagery systems.

So, anyway, Tim made me think about the balance of telling a story with life and humor and humanity and love and a sense of purpose, but not at the expense of its anger and frustration and hatred. In fact, the investment he builds up in the former makes the latter even more heartbreaking. Saying a friend died of AIDS wouldn’t resonate with an audience, we’ve heard that story, but once we know that friend, learn their stories, feel the love that flowed through them, and the history they shared with Tim, it makes it that much more impactful when we learn that Tim is the only one still alive to relate that history.

Now, my novel will still be rather dark, and cynical, and all that good stuff, but I think there’s a definite need to make it an incredibly human novel, as well. Because it will make everything funny funnier, everything shocking more impactful, and everything tragic more moving.

You know, I think I’m taking back the first part of this diary. I have to stop my former Teamster, former journalist viewpoint of productivity. I continually equate sitting at the computer and typing words as writing. But everything I do is writing, really.

I mean, I was thinking all of this stuff through tonight, but also bemoaning the fact that because of it, I wasn’t writing, when in fact, I just wasn’t composing. Living is writing.

If I want to be an artist, I need to keep filling myself up like a sponge, because then when I sit down to compose, I will be better equipped to wring out the text onto the page. Tim Miller, and David Drake, and Michelangelo Signorile, and Larry Kramer, and Harvey Fierstein, these are all amazing gay people who have shaped my sensibilities as a gay man and artist.

So, taking time away from composition to figure out how to add lessons I learned from Tim Miller into my novel, nothing could be a better use of my time.

Peace,

Jeff

Editing nights are always less exhilirating than writing nights. I guess it just lacks the same sense of creation, even though the editing is really where things get shaped and polished and read much better.

I don’t know what was up with me over the weekend, but damn I was certainly in passive voice way too much. That may be a result of having written something that was very clearly defined in the short story, which was told entirely in past tense, and having that voice inform the novel. Oh well, all fixed now, but that’s wasted time that should be better spent moving forward.

In my spare time now, I’m reading a book on being a Mac user. It was given to me by a co-worker, because as soon as they read it, they said the funny tone of it immediately reminded them of me. So, I figure why not, I can only read non-fiction when I’m writing anyway. It is such an awful book. It makes me seriously question how people perceive me.

It isn’t the first time this has happened. A year or so ago, a friend told me I just had to read Dave Eggers’ A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. The title was 70 percent right. It was staggering. It was work, and forcing myself to hit the end was heartbreaking. The genius eluded me. Once again, though, I was told the tone of this book would really work for me, because it was funny and pop cultury, etc.

It’s spooky to have people recommend stuff like this to me, on the instruction that I will find it achingly funny, because I have a similar humor, and it’s just so awful I can barely read it. Not sure what that says about them or me or how much I share of myself, but it is disconcerting.

I wrapped up the work a bit early tonight, as I’ve been a little later every night getting to bed, and tomorrow I work out with my trainer at 7 a.m., which means I have to get up at 5:45., so I want to make sure I am *in* bed at 10, and no just getting ready, and still packing my gym bag, mix up my protein thingy for breakfast, etc.

I think tomorrow will be a writing day, and then Thursday is going to be experiment day. I’m taking this show on the road, all the way down the street to the neighborhood bar or coffee shop, haven’t decided yet. I just want to see how well I work out and about with people. So I want to ensure I have enough to edit, in case the great outdoor doesn’t inspire writing longhand.

Tomorrow could be interesting, as I am bailing out of karaoke with the co-workers. I’m not opposed to karaoke, but I do have a piano 12 feet from here, so if I feel the need to sing, it is easy to fulfill that and get on with more important things. They are also starting the night at 9 p.m., which of course doesn’t fit into my fragile little system I have going here. It’s also hard to impress upon co-workers that you’re being reclusive anymore, since they see you day in and day out.

Not much else to report, got to go get ready for waking up early. Ick.

Peace,

Jeff

Tonight, of course, Chuck Palahniuk was in town. So, everything kind of revolved around that. He’s actually in town through Sunday, and people assumed I would be going to every event, but I’m done. That was it.

So, in preparation for the event, I made printouts of all the chapters I’ve done to date, put them in a binder, with a legal pad, in case I decided to write instead. All bases were covered.

As I have heard of 4+ hour Chuck events, I grab a burrito beforehand, and am in line outside the venue by 5:40. I pull out the notebook, and start editing. The line moves and we get to go in and sit down. I sit down, keep editing.

The crowd is noisy, rambunctuous. The person next to me already has lines from lullaby highlighted in yellow. Chuck is there by 6, and the energy in the place builds. Whispering goes through the aisles of earlybirds.

Three seats away from me, at the signing table, Chuck sits down and starts signing stock for the local bookstore (which means if you want to get a signed first edition, call Booksmith on Haight Street and they’ll ship you one for cost+shipping).

In another life, I would have gone over and chatted him up, reminded him about our interview, but my interactions with him as any guise of press are finished. Tonight, I was a reader and he treated me like a peer. Next time, we’ll both be authors.

I really just think of him as someone who writes well and is really pushing himself to make books happen. I don’t think he’s gifted, or a genius, or a god. He is a talented guy who can write, and is. Most success at writing comes from actually doing it.

So, he is signing stock, I keep editing my piece. Eventually, he is running out of stock, so they announce that we can get our stuff signed before the event, since I am in the center aisle, by the time I get across, I am about 50 people back. I am near the stand set up by the bookstore.

The guy selling books sees I have a few books to get signed, and says, we would like that if you are going to get something signed, you buy at least one thing from us. I think he is saying this in general, but no, he’s saying it to me. I tell him OK, figuring there is a big difference between what he would like and what is required. Besides, I did buy my books locally from an independent bookstore (admittedly, only because the book only came out three days ago, so I couldn’t get Amazon here that fast). He gives up on me, but some older guy from behind the counter walks around, and comes over to me.

He says the same thing. I tell him i heard him, but I’m covered. He says, so you buy all your books at Amazon? I say no, I bought them locally, at an independent bookstore. He says it costs money to put on events like this, and that I should buy a book. I say, you are only selling Chuck Palahniuk books, I have all the Chuck I need. And, at home, I have every other Chuck book. He remains standing there, looking at me, and people behind me start in. “Dude, are we required to buy a book here to get them signed? I didn’t buy my book here either.” He says no. He says I should know that if I am coming to a book signing, there will be books available for purchase. And, he should know that obsessed Chuck Palahniuk fans would buy the book the day it came out, not wait until the reading. (Hey, he doesn’t know I can’t read it for a few months).

The amazing part is, they would have no clue if I even bought these books at their store, since the event was being held in a library. All he knows is I didn’t go to the stand at the back of the venue and buy them now. And, the store already had him sign 5 first editions of fight club, special author trading cards they sell at the store, and like 3 cases of books. And everything they sell, like most independent bookstores, sells for the price inside the book. Never a markdown. Ever.

If this guy doesn’t shut up soon, I’m going to buy three copies of Lullaby, get them all signed, put them on ebay, double my money. Buy three copies from Amazon at 30 percent off, and when they come in, take them back to his store with my receipt and return them all for full price.

They finally let up and stop making a big deal out of people not buying a book from them, and the line starts picking up pace, but not fast enough. About three people from the front of the line, they announce that Chuck will continue signing after the reading. So, there’s a half hour I could have just continued editing and avoided annoying independent bookstore people. I’ve never had an issue with ordering from Amazon before, and I’m certainly not changing my tune after this interaction.

So, after a few minutes, Chuck, wearing camo pants, a denim-looking dress shirt untucked with the sleeves ripped off, and his huge ripped biceps, strolls out, and the manager from the store doesn’t know how to pronounce his name during his introduction. You’ve got to be kidding me. Chuck finally talks about what prompted the book and then reads a passage, reading what seems to be a seamless section, although he jumps three of four times through the book to piece it together.

Then a Q&A, nothing I haven’t read before, or used in my own interview. But he is funny, engaging, and no matter how many times he has told the stories, he manages to spin them differently, which seems to fit into his need to keep himself amused.

Finally, they thank him, and as the applause start, I bolt over and am the first person in line, since I want to get out of there, as the room is now packed and the signing will probably take more than three hours.

As soon as he comes to the signing table, he is giving me the same look he did when he saw me in the front row of the reading as he came out. “So, remind me, why do I know you?”

I tell him I interviewed him at Powells the day before I took Tom Spanbauer’s class in Cannon Beach. It all comes back to him, and he asks how the class went, as he signs the book. I give him a copy of the interview while I mention working on the second draft of my novel, and he thinks I’m giving him an excerpt of the novel. I tell him that’s the interview I did with him, not a piece of the novel. I debate giving him a chapter, since they are all in my bag right now, but they seem so fresh, so new, I want him to read this when it is much more polished than now. I don’t mention I have all my writing in the bookbag on the signing table, inches away from us. I already know how to get it to him when it is ready, I’ll have to trust that it will get to him when the time is right.

So, I leave the venue, and walk to the ethiopian restaurant nearby, finish editing the piece I was working on before all the Chuck stuff.

The night is so warm, sky clear, so I let the bus pass me by and walk the three miles or somesuch home from Haight Ashbury, through the Castro. It cuts into my writing time, but, oh well.

I recently realized that I think people are getting the opposite or at least wrong impression of my mood lately. People seem to wonder why, if I seem to distraught and unhinged while writing, that I would want to be writing a book at all.

I think there is a major misconception here. Whenever people see me in my life, or rather when I make myself visible, be it for dinner, phone calls, instant message sessions, e-mail, work, and I seem less than enthusiastic and scattered, people jump to the wrong conclusions (and I do nothing to help this along).

I actually love writing this novel. When I lose myself in creating it, there is pure joy. The hard part is getting myself to a point where I *can* lose myself like that, and that is distressing. Everything that isn’t writing is an obstacle in my life right now. So, any frustration is that I’m not writing, not that I am. And when I’m not writing, that’s when I’m available for interaction with other people.

It is in creating a world that balances things I want to do, like go to gym; have to do, like go to work; and all the other mundane things you need to do to keep a life going — that is my frustration.

Writing this novel has given me a peek into something elusive, work that both challenges me and makes me happy. I have never found it in any job, so it’s kind of a drug and now that I’ve had a small dose of it, I want more.

I want to write more, but I can’t. I have to go to bed at this time, so I can get up by this time, so that I can work out early enough so I can be at work by this time, and then I can write again, if only for a little bit.

But, tonight was refreshing, because I was reading stuff I wrote, and I liked it. I find less flaws every pass. It is becoming what I want it to be, and hopefully people like that. Ultimately, though, I really don’t care. I’ve been saying I wanted to write something like this since I was in my 20s, and now I know I’m going to finish. So, as soon as I’m done with it, I’m already ahead of the game.

Every day, though, I chip away at this book, and there is a little more on the pile. It keeps growing and someday soon, it will be done. And every day, my success and sense of accomplishment is judged by my novel, how it is going, where it is taking me, and that it is happening. Not the job I dislike. Not what movies I saw, TV shows. My life right now is about being an artist, and trying to create a little bit every night. So, when I’m happy, no one gets to see it but me.

I’m so happy, cuz today I found my friend, he’s in my head.

Peace,

Jeff

I was worried about writing tonight, because I thought there would be some karmic reaction. Tonight, I had a front row seat for the Bonnie Raitt/Lyle Lovett concert, and having seen neither performer before, I really thought it would be a good time.

But the ticket was purchased back when I was more liberal with my entertainment calendar, so now that I’m insanely disciplined about writing, I put the ticket up on ebay for face, and it sold. As fate would have it, the lady with the single seat next to me actually bought it for her friend, so that’s pretty wild.

The good news is that I was productive today, because if that hadn’t happened I would have been really bummed out that I missed the show. Now at least I can feel good about missing it because there are words on paper (well, on my computer’s hard drive, but paper has a more romantic ring to it) that weren’t there this afternoon.

Not a major chunk of writing, just a transitional piece that I don’t know what I plan to do with, because no matter what I do, Monday morning and the gym just seem to not get along. So, I had to go to the gym after work, rock out to The Vines for 45 minutes, and then come home, so that ate into the writing time.

But I’m happy with tonight’s piece, a bit too surfacey, but that’s why it’s a first draft. It may be written 30 more times and never end up in the final book, but there is some lesson in it that will inform the characters in a way that wouldn’t exist had I not written it. I mean, I have to tell myself that, or else it will seem like I’m wasting my time most nights.
I suppose I could do the drama queen thing and go grab Nick of Time, listen to some Bonnie, but that doesn’t seem to matter right now. Trent is doing just fine. And Ms. Pac Man wants some lovin’ before I go to bed, too, so I better check out for the night.

Peace,

Jeff

What’s goes in a writing journal when you don’t write?