When I listen to that song, I can see the book. I can feel it, stretching in front of me in its entirety, even though I don’t quite know yet how it ends.
I’m not watching the Superbowl because the television doesn’t work in the room where I’m writing, and I am just too darn lazy to move my backside into the other part of the house. Of course, the best part of the game (for me) are the ads, and I can catch all those right here.
It will be a long night. We had lovely guests today (all the Amish who helped build the new house, plus their families and children), but now I’m behind on words. It’ll sort itself out, though. Four years ago I would have been tearing out my hair, but life is too short, and stories suffer when you punish yourself.
I hate that John Updike died. Here’s an interview with him from the Academy of Achievement:
So, it’s clearly a wonderful imaginary world that you enter when you begin to write fiction. So I guess my hope was to become a fiction writer. I was prepared to fail. I was prepared to not be able to get things accepted, because I saw that happen to my mother. I knew that not everybody who tried to write actually got published, and in fact that’s kind of a long odds proposition, but I figured I’d give myself five years, and if I couldn’t get into print in five years I should know that I didn’t have what it took.
Hope you have a nice night, folks. I feel like I’m forgetting to mention something important. It’ll probably hit me right before bed, and then I’ll forget again by morning. My poor head!