I apologize in advance because it’s another bourbon and Ambien night. I’m typing softly because my wife is already asleep. I tend to type very loudly. Two fingers beating hell out of the keyboard. Irritates everyone around me.
The weather broke, that’s the headline. Storms came through yesterday and we went from hot and humid to cool and humid. 70 degrees fahrenheit. (As always, to convert to celsius merely multiply by your social security number — or codice fiscale — and divide by the number of gelato flavors you can recall. Over two.)
I’m sure I’ve mentioned that as a native Angeleno (Los Angeles) I hate the weather. All weather. Hot. Cold. Humid. Anything that isn’t 78 degrees, sunny and dry, is anathema to me. You thought I could bitch incessantly about food? Hah. Try me on weather.
I must interrupt for a brief aside to Italian women: Step away from the cowboy boots. For the love of God, step away from the cowboy boots.
Anyway, where was I? Was I whining about something? Oh yeah, weather. Here’s the thing: when it’s hot I just want to sleep. I’ve taken a grand total of about six naps in my life. Until I came to Italy. Now it’s all I can do to stay away from the bedroom after lunch. The bed calls to me. ”Come. Come and rest your giant bald melon head on my IKEA Tormso softness. Now with extra umlauts.”
Everything is hanging fire right now. I’m pecking away at GONE 3 which, for the moment at least, I’m calling LIES. Don’t quite have the rhythm down yet. But it’s coming together. And God I love writing first drafts again.
I’m sorry, I must interrupt for a second note to Italian women: how is it you all seem to know who can and who cannot show bare midriff? Would you mind sharing that knowledge with American women?
So I’m writing GONE 3 and have like eight other ideas jostling for attention. Pay attention to me, your stupid single title! Pay attention to me, your sci fi series!
Plus, the kids. And really, since they have, like, feelings and all, I should probably be spending my free time with them, right? As opposed to playing Quordy on my iPhone hiding out in the bathroom.
Oh yeah, the 3G. Who but a punk would still have a 2G iPhone?
Nope. No idea what the “G” means. But I know for sure that 3 is bigger than 2 and that bigger is better. After all, I am an American. Unless we’re talking the locker room at the Virgin Active where I occasionally have to take my kids to the pool. There I think big may be overrated.
So, the weather’s cooler, and I have lots of work to do, which is always a rare gift for a writer. More work coming down the pike. Various blogs. All of it good, because the one scary thing for a writer is having no work. Well, that and strokes And brain tumors.
I’m totally out of cigars. They really help me focus. I don’t have one right now and you see results. It’s not pretty, is it?
A nice email from a friend. My wife coughs in her sleep. The Ambien kicks in. Kids asleep. Dogs ready to bark at killers or porcupines.
Yeah, okay, another day.