Ok, so I was pulled out of my current WIP (work in progress) to see that college football has returned. May the Lord have mercy on my soul. For some reason, it was decided this year’s season should start in the UK. My parents are in Ireland because heaven forbid my father ever miss a Georgia Tech game. My grandfather played football for Georgia Tech. My family has had season tickets since Jesus was a boy. Tech won and my parents are having a good time. So I can return to ignoring life on this planet. Almost.
Janet Reid, attack shark and agent extraordinaire, Queen of the Known Universe, has returned from her August hiatus with her wisdom for writers. She is now swimming around New Leaf Literary, whipping the young agents there into shape or maybe making them get her Scotch and cake. I’m not sure. The details aren’t clear.
Anyhow, I need my queen’s blog much the way an addict needs their heroin. Did you know there are meds you should not mix with heroin? There was an article going around the school district I work at this week. Although I’m pretty sure you probably shouldn’t mix breathing with heroin if you wish to keep breathing.
My real world friends do not understand me at all. The Reiders at the Reef keep me focused. I love them all. I am horrible about telling them how much they inspire me and help me keep going. My rapid descent into madness (inevitable for all writers) is entirely their fault. How I adore them all, and one by one they will all appear in my books so that they can die spectacularly. Or maybe live forever.
Perhaps, only other writers can understand this process that turns your life’s priorities into something that might lead to your own death quite as readily as a badly mixed speed ball. (I read too damn much Irvine Welsh). Damn be all this eating, sleeping, bathing, and all else when you just need to get it all written down.
My daughter is so worried about my obsession over my current WIP that she and her friends dragged me out to a concert on Thursday night. Do not worry. I was not thwarted. I have figured out how to write on my phone. Until the battery died. How my daughter laughed at me while using stealth to ply me with copious amounts of damned good beer. I did enjoy myself, I think, but after my daughter dumped me in an Uber and sent me home well past midnight, I spent another two hours writing.
It seems after a whole lot of beers, adequately performed live music (a Fleetwood Mac cover band of all things), some dancing to the point that I pulled every muscle in my sad excuse for a flesh sack, I can write some pretty damn alarming and downright erotic scenes. Who ever said dino-porn was dead? However, there was a price to be paid the next day. Let’s just say the dog had to walk me.
I am not so young that I can recover quickly from that much sleep deprivation and debauchery. I wish I could find a way around that because I really do my best stuff after 1 AM and I am due at my dread day job at 7 AM most weekdays. My nemesis and savior both reside between 1 AM and 7 AM. Ah well, life goes on as does this untitled could be a masterwork, could be masturbation piece that I am working on. I head into a brutal but usually fair writer’s workshop starting tomorrow. I anticipate an awful big needle bursting my over-inflated bubble. But hey, it’s part of the process.