A few weeks ago I set myself the crazy challenge of finishing this book by the end of the month. Rounding the corner into the final quarter mile, my goal seems unlikely (sad face) but I’m closer than if I hadn’t tried at all. That’s worth something, right?
Whatevs, come September 2nd I’ll still be at my desk ready to write, wearing all white, so my original deadline and Labor Day etiquette can both suck it.
I’m emerging briefly from the foxhole to file this report in case I go insane like Gogol. In no particular order, here’s how the shit’s been going down:
I read The Stranger and “The Myth of Sisyphus” by Camus, The Alcoholic by Johnathan Ames and Dean Haspiel, and half of 1984. I reread parts of Ghostwritten (David Mitchell), Apex Hides the Hurt (Colson Whitehead), and Dead Souls. A pretty deep depression knocked out about 10 days of productive work, during which I watched the entire Dollhouse series on Netflix. It’s no Buffy or Firefly, but not every Whedon vehicle can be a winner. I asked a wonderful, talented writing coach to work with me on retainer and she said yes! I switched to a biphasic sleep cycle to try to write before my self-consciousness wakes up. It’s going about as well as when Kramer tried it on Seinfeld.
Aaand that’s where I am early on Day 23, bruised but retrenching for another round. I’ll send up a flare again sometime soon. And if anyone reads this, tell Twitter I say hi? I miss him/her/it.