Work has been hard. Not as hard as staring at yak ass all day, but still hard. Yesterday I worked all afternoon for three paragraphs that I'll probably toss out this morning.
But this weekend, I think the end of the novel is within grasp. If I ignore everything else and write, I think it will be ready to send out.
No, this is not my next novel. This is still the ghost novel that has plagued me for too long, keeping me from the next book and any semblance of sanity.
My friend Jerry is right, and timely, quoting Mr. Waits. You got to get behind the mule.
He's also right about his paintings. They do take over a room, which is a problem only if you have a weak, watery personality.
Of all things, that's a problem I do not have. Bring on the paintings.
1 comment:
Having finally made it back here, all this stuff about 800 or so words in a day is shocking--shocking, mind you! This from my 15-page day hero. It's like the foundation of my house was found to be full of worms, or made out of jiffy pop.
Actually, we have a hole in the back yard now because the City of Budapest sent workers to discovered why the back of our Habsburg is slowly falling off. Turns out it wasn't built right. I could've told them that, and our garden wouldn't look like shit now.
Keep on keepin it on, David, and get back to your own novel asap.
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