Wednesday, August 07, 2002
Yesterday, I did 1,033 words on Chapter Twelve. Not much else to say, which brings me back to the fact that writing just isn't a terribly interesting thing to write about. By it's very nature, writing is quiet, uneventful, calm (those fits of frustration aside) — nothing that makes for good news. I sit in my creaky chair in my hot office, typing away at my iBook, piling up words and eating candy (I hope my dentist is not reading this). Sometimes "interesting" things happen: I get a headache or a stomach ache; I have to deal with a phone call (rare, since that's Jennifer's job, and I pretty much only talk to agents); the roof starts leaking (rare now, since it's never going to rain here again); the cat barfs (very, very common); I run out of Kool-Aid and have to get more (I really hope my dentist isn't reading this); neither me nor the iBook (she has a name, Victoria) can figure out how to spell a word and I have to haul out the dictionary or thesaurus; Jennifer comes in with an interesting piece of mail (this almost never happens); I have to endorse a check for Jennifer to deposit (this doesn't happen as often as I'd like); I have to go to the bathroom (see Kool-Aid, above); a research type question comes up (lately, it's all been guns) and I have to call someone, or, more often, have Jennifer call someone; I check my e-mail (this actually occupies about 65% of the time I spend "writing"). So, as you can see, it makes for pretty dull reading. Eventually, I'll learn to bullshit and make the whole process sound artful and magical and such, but, for now, you're stuck with word counts.
Or, as Dorothy Parker said, "Everything that isn't writing is fun."
Ah, my Kool-Aid glass is empty . . .
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