As is often the case when I’m running hot and blasting out page upon page of brutality and violence and angst and old-fashioned two-fisted action, I feel like I haven’t done anything. There’s always so much more to go; it’s never enough.
I come downstairs and find these pages on my desk chair where I left them at 1 a.m., the Word file minimized and on a page 17 pages away from where I was Friday. It’s still not good enough. Bukowski set a goal of ten pages per day for his first novel, Post Office, and wound up banging out the whole thing in two weeks. It turned out to be a lot more than ten pages a day. I’m nowhere near ten pages. I’ve gone weeks where I’m lucky to have two. Per week.
I’ve got to get better, no doubt about it. People have been waiting too long on this sequel.
Meanwhile, let’s celebrate what we’ve got going on for us, to wit: the last week of winter’s most miserable month. It’s a month so miserable 29 days is as long as the damned thing goes, and only every fourth year at that. Curiously, though, a lot of birthdays occur in February. One in particular belongs to the former lead guitarist for The Beatles, the late Mr. George Harrison.
Mr. Harrison’s actual birthday is tomorrow but I figured I’d kick the festivities off early with what I consider his best solo song, the great Farewell Winter song that is not “Here Comes the Sun.” It’s a timely sentiment:
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a monster truck to steal and a burned out section of Black Forest full of alpha-eater zombies to terrorize. Mondays! Sheesh! You know it.
Oh, and in case you’re new here, liked the excerpt you saw pictured in the first photo, you’re morbidly curious, etc., the first book in my series, Bleeding Kansas, is available for your stealing-moments-at-work pleasure. Hang in there (I keep telling myself), we’re almost through this....
 |
| This is but the tiniest taste of how I was spending my Friday night. “The inside stinks of murder and voided bowels.” I have lived my entire life to write such a sentence. From Grace
Among the Dead: Book Two of The Saga of the Dead Silencer Copyright © 2014 by Lawrence Roy Aiken. All rights reserved. |
I come downstairs and find these pages on my desk chair where I left them at 1 a.m., the Word file minimized and on a page 17 pages away from where I was Friday. It’s still not good enough. Bukowski set a goal of ten pages per day for his first novel, Post Office, and wound up banging out the whole thing in two weeks. It turned out to be a lot more than ten pages a day. I’m nowhere near ten pages. I’ve gone weeks where I’m lucky to have two. Per week.
I’ve got to get better, no doubt about it. People have been waiting too long on this sequel.
Meanwhile, let’s celebrate what we’ve got going on for us, to wit: the last week of winter’s most miserable month. It’s a month so miserable 29 days is as long as the damned thing goes, and only every fourth year at that. Curiously, though, a lot of birthdays occur in February. One in particular belongs to the former lead guitarist for The Beatles, the late Mr. George Harrison.
Mr. Harrison’s actual birthday is tomorrow but I figured I’d kick the festivities off early with what I consider his best solo song, the great Farewell Winter song that is not “Here Comes the Sun.” It’s a timely sentiment:
Oh, and in case you’re new here, liked the excerpt you saw pictured in the first photo, you’re morbidly curious, etc., the first book in my series, Bleeding Kansas, is available for your stealing-moments-at-work pleasure. Hang in there (I keep telling myself), we’re almost through this....
No comments:
Post a Comment