I'm Awake

It's almost three in the morning, and I have managed to punch out who the hell knows how many words. There is only so much sweeping one can do. Or working out. Or dishwashing. Or folding laundry before one must sit one's ass in a chair and work on one's book.

Okay. Mine.

Every sentence I seem to manage, I told Meredith this evening while we sat on our balcony overlooking the downstairs neighbor's filthy front patio, comes out sounding something like the following gem we all know and love: "See Spot run." Yes. See Spot chase after his mangy tail till the trail runs dry and he collapses on the floor out of boredom or lack of energy, both of which fill the very sentences I write about Spot.

It's humid up here in the apartment. And Brisbane in general. And I want to chain smoke at the dining-room table, but I can't, so I refuse to believe that my cloves were like my kryptonite or life saber or protein. But I got a couple of pages written.

I finally made it out of Chico, thank the spiritual leader of the moment, which, because it was my undergrad and I moved to Chico when I was 17, means I'm 23 in my book. That's when the good stuff really started. Now I'm self-talking my way into honesty on paper. And that whole vulnerability thing.

What I'd love is an agent and a book deal, so an editor can whip my ass into writing perfection. But the formers must come later and I must do the latter myself. It's 2:50 a.m. and I did not plan this post.

I had to write something.