Barreling through a first-draft of Exit The Skin Palace. Merely mentioning that means I'll arrive at work at dark-thirty tomorrow and find the Muse has abandoned me. Still. Punching out 2500-words a day feels so good compared to the wasteland.
A return to writing has ignited a return to reading. Kind of.
Books I've set aside for one reason or another include:
The Second Chair - John Lescroart
Conversations With Nelson Algren
Blue City - Ross Macdonald
Americana - Don DeLillo
Bellow's People - David Mikics
Compare that to rushing through two Penelope Fitzgerald novels (Offshore; The Bookshop) and finishing the last 60% of one Naipaul novel (Half A Life) the same day I read his Miguel Street, too.
Fitzgerald is amazing. Truly. It's always those short novels that leave the biggest hole in your head (i.e., Winter In The Blood by James Welch might be as close to a perfectly written novel as anyone has or will ever get).
I mis-communicated with the nice people at Self-E. Of course they understand now that they're dealing with one more moron who thinks he's a writer yet apparently can't even write a proper e-mail. When the dust settles, Lucid will be Kindle-only, The Lipless Gods will still be free for everyone to download and then abandon.
Social / political front: Got a Bill and Opus 2016 shirt. Hope the Seahawks actually perform their respectful protest. And goddamn, but human beings eating critters - pig, dog, etc. - I just don't know where you rewire that particular bugaboo.
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