When reading through my stuff, as well as writing today’s brief attempt at a chapter, I still realize how much journalism has shaped my writing style. I was never a serious enough writer before going into journalism to say that it ruined my writing style, but it’s much fairer to say that significant shaping has occurred.

Whenever I write a first pass on the novel, as I started a draft of chapter four tonight, it just seems like all I am doing is writing paragraphs in a hurry. Dialogue is clipped and pointed. If something doesn’t move the plot along, it doesn’t appear.

On my second pass on a chapter, my job is to stick fuses into each paragraph, and break it up into small, more interesting passages. Let myself explore something for a beat or two that may not touch the plot, but better grounds the piece in its reality, makes you care about a character for an extra second.

On top of everything, though, the story just needs to breathe. The characters need to inhale as much as they talk.

I’m used to the old journalism way, where getting an 18-inch story to tell what happened in seven hours of a criminal trial was considered writing a long story. It may be one of three you were writing that day, but it was still long.

Even my first attempts at writing were all journalism-inspired. Most of my chapters were starting to weigh in at 900 words, which I guess means I promoted myself from reporter to columnist, since that’s a pretty standard measure.

This draft is different. I have chapters that are three pages, and some that are 19. And I’m trying to unlearn and learn way too much simultaneously.

Past tense is also huge for me because, again, journalism is about writing things that have occurred, so I naturally slip into that voice. It is what comes out of me easiest. Unless you are using it as some literary device, no one wants to hear a story that is all flashbacks. Again, many exceptions, most noticeably Citizen Kane, which starts at the very end of his life.

The entire short story that turned into this book is written in past tense, so even the source material I’m working with started in that direction.

So, when I write a passage and it is in the present tense, first person, and as few “I”s as possible, I’m elated. I’m not elated often enough, though.

I am being a horrible recluse lately. It is a bad time to write a book and shut off the world. Holidays are approaching. Too many bands are touring. Too many plays are happening. Too much everything.

Tomorrow, I see The Strokes. Friday, I see Baz Luhrmann’s La Boheme. In November, I see Bill Maher, Beck, three plays, take a two-day cooking class, go to an Italian wine/white truffle dinner, and December is already filling up with Counting Crows concerts, Guns and Roses, Christmas in Texas…

And, despite all that, I really want to finish this draft before Christmas. So, I really need to buckle down and make this happen. After reading the draft recently, writing everything that occurs between now and Christmas isn’t the challenge. The challenge is rewriting much of what is already written so that it works.

More fuses. More thought. More humor. More pathos.

I want to feel spent when I finish this book, that I can’t squeeze out another thought for a while because my head hurts. I want to diagram every sentence and paragraph I write and know why it’s there. I want the courage to kill funny lines that would be better off being deleted.

This is certainly the oddest way a person can spend their life. Locked up tinkering on a story, putting hours, and thought, and everything else on hold. Even when I do go out, the book is never in ‘off’ mode. Writing the book is 24/7, and everything is writing. Thinking of the plot in my head, what characters can do in the book, what is working, what isn’t. Actually sitting down and composing is more finite and focused. It’s what I used to call the writing. But what isn’t writing anymore?

I e-mail myself odd fragments all the time from work. Curse myself for not carrying a pen and small notebook when I’m out and about and hope I remember stuff to write down when I get home (I usually do). I make connections between whatever I’m at and what I’m writing. Tomorrow night, I will have an analogy for how my book is like a Strokes concert. Later tomorrow night, an analogy for how my books is a drunken gay Halloween. On Friday, how my book is La Boheme.

There seems to be a thin line between art and insanity.

Here’s hoping I teeter relentlessly, at least until this book is out of my head, onto paper, and finished.

And finished means I’m done writing it. Not when it’s published.

What is everyone’s fascination with publishing? Here are two things I know for sure:

– if you lose weight, people will ask “What’s your secret?”

– if you’re writing a book, people will ask “Do you have a publisher?”

Here is the beauty of writing a book: it is absolutely completely free, just launch Microsoft Word and start today. It is therapeutic. It is meditational. It is challenging. It is disciplined.

My sense of satisfaction will be when I know I’ve written the best text that has ever come out of my head and onto the page. I want to rewrite every sentence until it sings. I want to hold a heavy stack of paper in my hand, and know that I no longer think I can improve it and want to release it into the world.

Publishing is where art meets commerce.

My goal is to spend as much time as I can perfecting the art, before I open the door to the commerce side of the house.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a total capitalist. I love money. I would love for nothing more than to make enough money on this book to forever leave my day job.

But, allowing that energy into the book is poison. Writing to get out of my job will only ensure I stay there longer. Some nights I play video games longer, until I know my head is 100 percent in my book. When Trent’s screams lose all sense of having lyrics. When my fingers fly across the keyboard and I only half-understand what is coming out, because I’m trying just to keep up. When I never want that feeling to end…

Jeff

After the Chapter 3 fiasco, I spent the writing window for the past two days reading what I’ve written to date and comparing that to stuff in the short story and first (horrible) draft.

As you might imagine, it’s not that exciting to read your own stuff at this stage. I wasn’t editing, I wasn’t making sure it read beautifully. The goal was to see what had been written, and what isn’t. So, awkward words, bad sentences, run-ons, fragments, you just keep plowing through.

So, now I have a small list of like ten or twelve scenes/chapters I know I need to write yet, since it’s getting too far on to make it up as I go along. Kind of nice to have that stuff spelled out.

So, nothing too interesting to report, just some necessary busywork. But, man, does that stuff need editing…

Jeff

Everything was planned, nothing would go wrong.

Tonight I was going to write Chapter 3 of my novel.

My calves burning from a Wednesday morning workout, I postpone my cardio until after work, hoping they will loosen up before then.

During the entire workout, I play Nine Inch Nails’ Downward Spiral, as I play back Chapter 2 in my head. I know what I need to say for Chapter 3. I know what I need to accomplish.

I know where it should start to pick up, where it arcs, how it resolves. I come home, throw some veggie burgers into the microwave, some ears of corn into the steamer, and start Trent screaming through my apartment to maintain the vibe.

Scarf down the burgers, the corn to follow in 35 minutes, and I read the tail end of Chapter 2. Something caught my eye, though, when I opened Chapter 2. A filename that seemed odd.

Now, for the sake of clarity, my filenames all start with the word “meet,” so the first chapter is “Meet (protagonist’s name),” “meet your life,” “meet the parents,” you get the idea.

When I opened chapter 2, one of the “meet”s seemed like it would be a good title for Chapter 3. And with good reason. It was Chapter 3. Already written more than a month ago.

So… needless to say that threw me off completely tonight, and was both humorous and annoying. To be fair, the approach I was planning to take tonight on Chapter 3 is not what was written. But it makes more sense than what I had planned. I was planning to write linear tonight, whereas the old version is told in flashback from three days later. The flashback thing does resolve a lot of the dilemmas I thought I would face tonight.

I guess the upside is that I don’t have two chapter threes written now, but it did make my next move clear. Tomorrow, I will print out every chapter I have written, read what I have from end to end, and come up with a list of scenes I need to write.

Now, there are a lot of things I know that I want to add to this draft that aren’t in the first draft, so there is no precedent for writing them. But, I am (clearly) getting to the point where structure needs to be added to the mix. I can’t spend some debating what needs to be written off the top of my head. In some instances, I’ve written some of these scenes three and four times already, so when I wrote them isn’t as clear anymore.

So, tomorrow, I go see Ani DiFranco, so that will be a down day. So, Saturday, I will either read everything I’ve written or go to the library, because I do have research to do for an upcoming chapter (one I *know* I have yet to write), and it’s easier to do that on the weekend.

But I think after a month and a half of writing for 2.5 to 3 hours on almost every day, it is time to take a step back and see what I’ve been up to.

This is still so messed up… almost writing a chapter twice.

Peace,

Jeff

Nice night, nothing phenomenal. Well, I suppose that isn’t entirely true. The thing I thought I would be editing all week and possibly into the weekdn, because it is so crucial and important to the book, is done.

This scene, the inciting incident for the whole book has been one of the few pieces that has almost never changed from the short story. It wasn’t even as awful in the first draft, one of the few times you’ll hear me say that.

I just think I nailed it. And if I didn’t, then it’s still too soon for a detached read. Actually, strike that, it *IS* too soon for a detached read. My goal tonight was mainly to polish it up, lose as many of the I’s as possible, and get ready to move on.

So, that means that before I lay me down to sleep I have to figure out what I’m writing tomorrow, in an attempt to get my mind background tasking on you know who’s dime.

One thing I noticed in Adrian’s update tonight, though, is that he thinks I’m concerned that I’m not being entertaining for the readers of this diary, and as much as I would like to say that is accurate, it’s just not true. The only reason I am keeping this diary is because I want to document what I am doing to write this book. When I’m writing, how I’m writing, how much revision, etc.

I’m not organized enough here to do versioning, so when I change what I wrote Monday into what I edited today, what I wrote Monday no longer exists. I’m working without a net.

Actually, the third chapter is what I need to write tomorrow, since the momentum of the second chapter segues too perfectly into it, and it is another bitch of a chapter to write.

The third chapter is also a key part in the short story, so I’m not going into tomorrow blind. I’ll just need to pack my NIN Cd, so I can ramp up on my walk home from work.

Yikes, two more chapters down. That makes me happy.

Jeff

On days I write, I always have something to say here. On days I edit, … *tumbleweed rolls by*

I suppose this makes sense, but it doesn’t make for an interesting diary. So, yesterday was like a night of “method writing,” and I was all pumped up and agitated when I finished writing. That was good, because the character was in the same state at that point in the story.

But today, editing the same piece is academic, detached, workmanlike. Of course, this isn’t the round of editing where you go through it like a swashbuckler and just slash and burn through everything. This is the clean-up round, but I’m still way too attached to what I wrote for the critical pass. That will come much later.

It’s hard to start dancing around the room because you submerged 15 instances of the word “I,” making the story a better read. Important, just not interesting…

Oh well…

Peace,

Jeff

So, no strange stories about odd celebrities today. Just a normal Saturday for me: gym, movie (bowling for columbine), and writing.

Finally just dug in and pushed through the chapter that has been plaguing me. Nine pages that didn’t exist this afternoon are now on my hard drive, so I’m happy. Like most first drafts, I’m sure it will need expanding and revision, but there is something there. No more blank Word document.

This chapter plagues me when I realized that I am not my protagonist. I know I’ve written that here often enough, but there was a painful realization when I read what I had initially written and discovered it.

OK, the first chapter is set in a “office meeting” setting, to be vague. You know, two companies meeting, working together to do something, and there is that whole chemistry and bravado and stuff that I’ve seen so many times before. But I could care less about it. I think it’s stupid, so I just sit there, think sarcastic thoughts in my head and wait for it to end.

When I wrote that chapter, and it was set in a meeting. I slipped into auto-pilot, and it was all sarcasm and nameless co-workers around the protagonist, etc.

Problem is, the protagonist believes in this system. He is invested in it. He loves his job. His co-workers are his family. So, all his snarky comments didn’t work. Thnkfully, this is the only place this line has been subconsciously crossed, but it caused more problems, because as per usual, if they couldn’t be nameless co-workers, they had to be… new characters.

So, this meant fleshing our four or five co-workers, trying to add some background, history, humanity and camaraderie to the interactions. More work to be done this week in rewrite, I’m sure.

Thankfully, they don’t need to be too rich, since the inciting incident is in chapter two, so I don’t think any of these characters show up again. One might, but the rest don’t. Ultimately, they need to live in that moment, seem real, make you wonder where this story is going, and then - wham! - that isn’t the real story after all.

I’m not giving away any major plot point here. Every book you read has stuff that is fine to read, but you just forget about it once you hit the point where the plot starts consuming the book. Hell, my the time this thing is published, who knows how it will start.

But, today, it starts with what I just wrote. It will be re-written many times, I’m sure.

So many characters front-loading a book, though. Oh well, they all go away fast enough and then it’s all protagonist and the other characters build up more naturally.

OK, enough writing for tonight, must get away from computer…

Jeff

I know I won’t get a damn bit of writing done until I write about the night I just had. Actually, I tend to never work on my novel on Fridays, so given the late hour, and that I need to get this story out of my system, I guess this will be another Friday without progress.

Tonight, I went to a Carol Channing book signing. Every few days, I pass by a bookstore in the Castro near my gym. When I unfortunately pay retail for my books, this is the one store I let charge me full face value on books. In their window recently is a picture of Carol Channing, and a notice that she will be signing her memoir, Just Lucky I Guess, tonight.

At first, I figure that will be one interesting scene and pay no attention to it. But, the more I think about it, I decide to show up. My friend Will, whom I don’t think reads or knows about this diary, well, he seems like someone who would appreciate a signed Carol Channing book, so I figure he should have one for Christmas.

But the more I think about it while I was standing there tonight, I caved in and got one for myself, too. I figure the book has to be a train wreck, and I want to see how crazy it is. I mean, Carol Channing, as near as I can tell, exists solely outside of reality. Despite any claims to the contrary, she is basically known for playing Hello Dolly since it opened on Broadway until, well, she’ll probably tour it next year again. That I have yet to see her as Dolly amazes me, given how much I like theater. Of course, at this point, it would be more spectacle than theater.

So, I walk by the bookstore a half hour before signing time and the line is already huge. Unfortunately she is only signing, not reading or taking questions, which I think would have brought out more drag queens and turned it into more of a freak show. So, I get in line, hungry, as I didn’t have dinner at this point.

The line snakes out the door and who know how far down the street. Behind me, there is a lesbian wearing a matching suit, coat, and tie. Very dapper. We hit it off, mainly after I start cutting down the crowd to her amusement. Everyone around me seems obsessed with the fact that they are going to meet Carol Channing. I’m indifferent, but I’m sure other people are including me as they do their sarcastic take on the evening. “Look at that one, total theater queen, probably rare for him to be out on a Friday and not home listening to cast recordings.”

A few overly-coiffed gay boys start clearing a path, making the line against the wall single-file, just obviously clearing the way for Carol to make her entrance. They work the crowd like gay secret service, and out in the street, we hear applause. And then, she appears. She looks kind of… out of it. Like, I’m sure she knows where she is, and stuff like that. But there is something not right about her. I expected the wig, the big eyes, the wide mouth with the lipstick outlining her lips a bit too widely. But there is something not quite right with her. She starts chatting randomly with people she doesn’t know in line, mainly non-sequitors and randomness. She bends down to pet a dog someone brought, making the gay secret service nervous and prepared to make sure if she tumbles over, as it looks like she might, she won’t hit the floor.

She wanders toward me and stares into my eyes, looking for some sign of recognition, looking like someone a bit sauced after a night of drinking. Finding nothing in those few seconds, and me having no clue what I’m supposed to be saying to her, she turns and has a moment with the lesbian behind me, who says she is fabulous, and no matter what seems to come out of her mouth, it is just random. I mean, I knew she was bit looped at this point in her career, but I’m certainly looking forward to seeing how cohesive the book is. If it follows her seemingly daily thought patterns it will be Hello Dolly meets Naked Lunch. She eventually makes her way to her signing table out of our view, and I immediately know I’m in for the long haul. No way she’s going to be banging out ‘Carol Channing’s in 5 seconds and moving this line quickly.

I figure, I’m in a bookstore, so I grab a copy of Kitchen Confidential, the book I’m currently reading, find the chapter I’m on, and figure I’ll make some headway. Then, the line shifts enough so that a few people from across the aisle get to join me and the well-dressed lesbian in the Carol queue. The gap exists so people can still shop in the store and make it to the registers, etc.

Anyway, two guys meet behind me in line, total autograph collectors. I mean, don’t get me wrong, half of my bookcase is probably signed, but every single one was signed in my presence at some event. I never write gushing fan mail asking people to send me signed stuff back. Apparently, this is an obsession with some people, and two autograph nuts together in line, there was no shutting them up. Well, the older one mainly coached the younger one, if that’s what you can call it. It was mainly a laundry list of celebrities and whether or not they will give autographs. I could barely make it through my book for a few lines without the older one piping in:

“Fay Wray refuses to sign. Her, Shirley Temple, none of them sign anymore. I’m actually going to buy a letter Katherine Hepburn wrote on eBay just to get her signature.”

This laundry list of most B- and C-actors will continue for the next 40 minutes in line. I try and read my book, but the barrage of autograph insanity never ends.

“What you have to do is act fast. When you see someone who you think might be famous, drop them a line and they’re more likely to sign something. Kirsten Dunst, I liked her early on, and I got her to sign a few things. But after she did that cheerleader movie Bringin it on home, that was it, just pre-prints.” (which begs the question, how often does he bother these people? I mean, for him to know she doesn’t sign anymore after Bring It On (the actual title of the movie), means he tried to get her to sign after then, as well).

Pre-prints, I would learn, are what you get from big celebrities. 8 by 10 photos with signatures printed as part of the photograph. The cast of Friends, all pre-prints. Most big stars, pre-prints. My sole pre-print in life may be when I got a signed photo of Donny Osmond after sending a letter.

One of the gay secret service is now working his way down the line with post-its, standard operating procedure for big signings. He says it is so Carol knows how to spell our names, but then in B-I-G exaggerated type, he writes “JEFF” and “WILL” and affixes them to each book, on the page she will sign. My guess, this is written big so she can actually read it.

“I wrote Woody Allen a few times already, and nothing. I have a lot of Robert Redford. Never got Carroll O’Connor, and now he’s dead. I have Ed Asner. I have Frank Gorsham, you know, the Riddler on Batman? He was especially nice. I sent him a letter, and he went through and circled and marked up specific passages of the letter, and wrote ‘How nice of you to say this’ and different things on the letter, and sent it back to me with a signed photo. I have Nicholson, my friend in L.A. actually knows Jack.”

I fight ever urge to find a beat in his conversation to ask him if Marlee Matlin signs, but I am in the Castro, so the crowd could easily turn on me if I cross the PC line, so I just smile, amused at my own joke, and persevere trying to read my book.

Ahead of me are the serious Carol fans, older men with their cast recordings sharing tales of Broadway legends. No one, that I can tell, has read Channing’s book, although all claim they are going to. To be fair, I’m not even sure when it came out, so this might not mean much.

“Nic Cage doesn’t sign anymore, unless you meet him in person. Bill Cosby will sign. I was lucky enough to get Doris Day to sign. With a lot of the younger stars, you really have to wait until they become less popular and have more time, before they will be able to respond to mail inquiries for autographs.”

Despite the laundry list of B-celebrities, and my own wonderment at what kind of sick, obsessive hobby this must be, I do get some reading done. Four chapters, I think. I am about eight people away from Ms. Channing when I finally pitch the book on a random, nearby shelf, making note of the new chapter title, so I can update my bookmark when I get home.

“Barbra will sign, but you have to run into her, or buy one on eBay.”

I start mentally planning my dinner menu. I know I’ll be eating at Tin Pan, an Asian noodle place a few doors away, and I plan to get sweet vegetable buns to start, and “Very Veggie,” a nice, spicy stir-fry dish made with thick, chewy rice noodles, tofu, and a lot of fresh veggies.

Finally, autograph man blends into the background as I am finally in view of Ms. Carol Channing. She travels with her own contraption so that she can write on a 30-degree angle from the table, it’s like a square of wood with notches, so she can adjust the pitch of her makeshift desk.

What I quickly learn about Ms. Channing is that there is no multi-tasking. If she is taking a picture with someone, she grabs their hand, looks stoned and trying to focus and hold steady while looking toward the camera, and then one of the gay secret service with the camera says “It’s 1-2-3 time again, Carol,” and then counts, “1..2.. 3″ On 3, Channing brightens her eyes slightly and smiles wide, for a millisecond of camera flash, then back to glassy-eyed and kind of out of it. When she signs, she mouths every letter as she writes it, even in her own name. I can’t believe they even have her personalizing these books, it seems like the 13 letters in her own name would be enough trouble.

Finally, it is my turn. She looks into my eyes like she is trying to figure out why she knows me, which she does to everybody, but of course, she doesn’t know any of us. I tell her I saw her in Vegas two years ago, when she surprised Tommy Tune at his revue. And, you’ve got to hand it to her, she looks out of it but she immediately recalls the entire moment. “Yes, he signed his book onstage for me, such a nice, nice boy.”

She looks off in the distance, probably thinking about Tommy Tune. I remind her that she even danced a few steps and sang a line or two of Hello Dolly that day when she got up on stage. She says “Yeah, such a nice day,” and then immediately turns back to all glassy-eyed and longing, the moment gone.

She signs both books, and I decide I have to stick around and see what crazy autograph guy is like around her, since it’s only five more people. Most people don’t interact with Carol Channing, they interact around her. The secret service guys say “This is Shelby. This book is for Shelby.” And, inside the book, of course, in big block letters, it reads: SHELBY. So, Carol signs “To Shelby,” something, “Carol Channing.”

The salutation seems to be when people decide to talk to her, and throw her off. She concentrates heavily on the name, so once she starts in on the Xs and Os, people figure that is a good time to say whatever it is they need to have their moment. It is when I talked about Tommy Tune, when everyone talked about whatever else. But, it seems that this is pure distraction to Ms. Channing, and it shows in the books. Shelby’s book had a few cryptic marks there. In my book, it’s XXS (after which she paused for a second, staring at the page, no doubt wondering why the hel there was an ‘S’ there, but then just jumped down to start her name). Will’s book, has OO and what seems to be a backwards 2. A few people before autograph guy smile, said thank you, and if they said absolutely nothing during the signing, they got a pristine XXOO, with Carol mouthing “X,X,O,O” to herself as she remained in deep concentration with the book.

Autograph guy was actually very normal and personable when meeting her. He apparently works in radio and said he played a song of hers or something on the air that day, which made her light up. Since he didn’t end up being as strange as I had hoped, I left before she even started signing his book, and photograph, and whatever else he had. I’m sure in a week from now, he’ll be online somewhere saying “And I have an autographed photograph and book from Carol Channing…”

As I walked out of the store, the line was still out to the sidewalk, meaning after 75 minutes already, she still had a good 90 minutes ahead of her. Not to mention that the store had about 80-100 copies of the book in stock behind the counter, which they will want signed. So, you have to give it to her, she is a trooper and definitely earning her stripes as an old school, workhouse performer.

I know it may seem like I’m mocking or ridiculing her in some way, but I’m really not. She’s going to be 83 years old in January, she wrote a book, people are lined up around the block just to have a moment with her. I could care less about her and I bought worth of her books (which at full retail means only two copies, of course), and I got well, six pages of insanity typed out of the experience as a result.

I think she is the model for not giving in or giving up. I swear if you had a karaoke machine with a Hello Dolly tape, she would have jumped up and started singing, that is the generation she is from. The show goes on, no matter what. I’m not even admitting that I’ve missed the boat to see her do Hello Dolly on stage. I guarantee they would do a whole show with her hardly moving, center stage, kind of out of it, but saying all her lines, hitting her marks, and belting out songs with that inimitable voice. And the audience would give her a standing ovation, more so for the fact that she did it than anything else, but that’s still saying something.

I hope I get to be a crotchety old man, with gay secret service men walking my cranky, dazed ass somewhere, and a huge line of people showing up, but I don’t think that’s our generation, though. They are a dying breed. Today, any actor who was known for primarily one role, odd personal appearances, and being a regular on Hollywood Squares, that would be considered failure. But, she’s had a career for 50-plus years in show business? There’s no other word for that but success.

And, to top it off, you just know that book is going to be insane…

Peace,

Jeff

Very blah night, fell asleep for a bit, and am hoping I didn’t futz up my schedule. Although, it’s Friday tomorrow, so my schedule will be easier to adapt to whatever happens.

Aside from that, it was more working through the opening of the book. I recently looked at the passages I was writing, and thought that isn’t how this character would react to this situation, that’s how I would react, which was a good thing.

Oddly enough, no matter what I say, people who know me will think I am this character. First novel, book in first person, some similar issues, so no matter what this character does, I’m sure friends and family will jump to conclusions.

In any event, though, I still am putting myself through the equivalent of method acting to write this thing. The scene I am doing now is something really outside myself, which is why it’s giving me drama. The character isn’t speaking with the proper authority about his world, he’s speaking about mine right now.

Oh well, I didn’t write enough to justify ranting here for too long. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.

Jeff

Absolutes are really a problem, and should be avoided. They will always come back and bite you in the ass.

After my song and dance about how I was done doing research yesterday, I spent most of tonight… doing research.

Not pure research, like reading the book was, but just investigating something that needed to be done. Again, I think it will make the book stronger, start better, and it’s hopefully funnier because of it, too.

Tonight was definitely one of those nights where I visited sites I never thought I would and you just end up wondering, am I really doing something worthwhile, or am I really just wasting a lot of time. Time will tell, I guess.

I’m kind of in that mode where I’m not in control now. I took in a lot of information that I know I need, and now I’m at the mercy of my subconscious mind to shape it into something bigger and better than I would sitting here and staring.

Trust me, I’d prefer the entire process of writing a novel to be academic, follow this path, connect the dots, and everything works out. But that doesn’t seem to be the path, or mine at least.

I could have easily finished writing what I started yesterday, and this draft of the first chapter would have easily surpassed the awful drek that is in the official first draft. But what I’m planning now surpasses that and sets the bok up better, so I decided not to rush, calm down, go explore over here and see what turns up.

I wonder what I would be like without a day job? Trust me, I wonder this all the time, but usually only from the sense of not wanting my day job. But what would it be like for something like tonight’s flight of fancy to be what I actually did as a professional. I mean, it was an amusing coda to my day now, but it’s hard imagining what would happen if that were my entire day. A few more hours to surf the web looking at random site, inventing worlds and words that invoke our own but yet give me a lot more poetic license. It’s hard to contemplate really.

Like today, I went out for dinner, just to break up the week. So, I leave work at 5, at the restaurant by 5:30, out at 6, home at 6:30, fully working by 7 until about 9:30 p.m. And now, of curse, I write this.

But, removing that 8 hour chunk of the day would definitely prove interesting. Not that I’m looking to get laid off or quit my job, I’m not in good enough financial shape to pull that off. But, I do wonder what my schedule would be like with that much free space to do with as a I please. I won’t know for quite some time, though. Publishing isn’t really a quick industry, so me typing “The End” means 20 percent of my work is done in getting the book on shelves. And publishing is really just the white collar lottery for the most part, and you never know if and when your ticket will come up. There are amazing books that get no attention, absolute crap on bestseller lists, and tons in the middle that find lots of other paths.

Oh well, time to eat a Pyramid Bar and go to bed.

Peace,

Jeff

Spent about 90 minutes of pure writing tonight, and I could probably still be writing now, but I wanted to keep the energy of where I was at, so I stopped. It was flowing pretty fast, words that I liked came out of me like furious dabs of tulips stuttering, so I made sure to keep up my strangled, work-driven ways for as long as seemed proper.

I know what I want to write in the chapter already, what the next sentence, thought, crescendo should be. So, that will be the first thing out of me tomorrow. One thing I have found is that whenever I stop something to keep the energy, it has yet to fail. There is never a “now, where was I going with this?” or immediate writer’s block.

It’s always, “oh, of course,” and then I start firing immediately on all pistons. (butch car engine reference, still need to work a sports reference in and then I’ll be happy). It’s kind of like taking a seventh inning stretch (sorry, I didn’t want to prolong it), you immediately know the score, who’s on bat, and what you want to happen with the remainder of the game. And in writing, like baseball, you might know what person is up at bat next, but sometimes what they do still surprises and delights you.

OK, I’m metaphored out.

Someone/thing today triggered in me the knowledge that “Chuck Palahniuk” has a new book, and I was shocked that I have really kept him on the back burner. I really expected to have the booksitting here next to my monitor, taunting me and pushing me to continue, but sometimes I let my mind be dramatic and my reality be normal. He’s just filed on my bookcase, new release shelf, under “P.” And, in about two months, I will read it.

I guess it’s safe to say this here, since I don’t think anyone on this side of my family reads this thing. So, my cousin in Texas and I watched Fight Club when he visited SF on business a while back. His wife never wanted to see it, and married couple, compromise, blah blah. So, we watch it, and he really liked it. So, I think, this is perfect, I’ll get him a signed first edition of the book when Chuck was in town. So, I buy it, get it signed, personalized and all, and then I connect that I bought a book about a journalist writing about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome as a gift for someone with a three-month old baby. Needless to say, I think I have to keep searching for a better gift. In another year, or two, or three, he can have that. Or perhaps someone wants a very unique, personalized Chuck book for someone on their Christmas list, perhaps eBay is a better answer.

As you can tell, when I kill the action to plug the dam for tomorrow’s writing torrent (that’s not butch, just forced), I really don’t have much to say here, I just kind of blather on, because in the back of my mind I’m wanting to finish now, but telling myself, “Oops, it’s bedtime. Nite nite.” So, the mere fact that I allow myself to write (this), but not write what I want (that), is some sort of mental S&M. And, the safe word is…

Good night.

Jeff