I'm drinking a beer. Not trying to cut back because I don't drink that much.
Joined a gym. First time in ages. I dig it.
Sitting at my little writing desk that I only use every so often. I write elsewhere, most days, but this is nice. Here's the scene:
I just listened to a Miles Davis album I'd never heard of. Ascenseur pour L'echafaud. Didn't know he was French. Soundtrack. Looked it up. Title means Elevator for the Scaffolding.
Last night's potatoes are warming on the stove.
This year, different kind of year.
Like a drawing with half blurry lines.
Got some stuff to share.
That's my theme: to share this stuff.
Got plans. Been stockpiling. Stupid stuff. On brand.
Spent the day working on the end of the novel. Last part of that scene that takes up one-third of the book. Can you imagine? Maybe twenty-five percent.
Who's counting?
Left you after the first two-thirds, about a year back. Spent the rest 2024 writing the last part, then rewriting and editing the whole enchilada. The whole year.
Can you imagine?
Occurred to me today that pretty soon I'm not going to be able to spend time with these characters anymore. Weird feeling. Soon they'll leave home. Joined an empty-nester group on Meetups™ . They're sure to kick me out. Like a eunuch at a swingers club.
Next novel won't take sixteen years to finish. You can bet on that. Sixteen years, for the love of Pete. Early burst. A decade of neglect. Revival, then a little more neglect. Two-point-five years of diligence. What a jerk.
Good album, by the way. The French one. Ascenseur pour L'echafaud. Started it again. Potatoes, too. Crisped up real nice. Just stood over the stove and ate them one by one right out of the skillet. Nothing wrong with a good potato.
Keep your eyes peeled. More stuff coming soon.
All of it medium.
Average, mostly.
And weird, some of it.
Like a jazz tune no one told Miles to write.
Just picked up his horn one day and said fuck it.
Happy 2025.
