I really should. Not that I have any particular reason for doing so. I’m somewhat sleepy, but I’ve been like that for the last three days. Today was cool and stormy. The two days prior were the first truly hot days we’ve had this year. Heat saps me until I get used to it, increase my water intake and all. And storms, when they’re not actively trying to kill people, are relaxing. And it’s fun to look out the window at 3PM and see a sky so black it looks like 9PM. Or to look east and see the very distinct line between the black clouds and the pale grey. Plus, it’s almost tomorrow, so you know, that means sleep. In some universes. Not mine tonight.
Watched the Boston Bruins win the Eastern Conference finals. A game without a single penalty and only one goal. And it wasn’t a boring game. Very much looking forward to the Stanley Cup finals now.
I tried to read some, and it’s not that the book is bad; it’s just not as wholly engaging as it could be. When that happens, I find myself reading as a writer, not as a reader. Another recent read, again not bad, just not engaging enough, had me wanting to take a pencil to it and edit the fuck out of it. What the fuck is with that structure? Dude, it’s not cute–it’s fucking annoying. And why spend so much time on a character only to kill him off as if he doesn’t even matter? The story would have been excellent at about 10k words. At 200 plus pages, it’s kinda crappy. I’ve been reading like that a lot lately. Very little has taken me so into its world that I don’t see the novel. I want to see the setting, whether that’s LA or another planet or whatever. I don’t want to be aware of what the writer is attempting to do. I want to be so into the story that I can’t wait to turn the page and dread getting to that last one. While I’ve read some good stuff this year, so far, the one writer who has really done this for me is Michael Chabon. All he has to do is say hello, and I’m hooked until he says goodbye. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay earned that Pulitzer Prize.
Oddly, that kind of thing happens when I’m writing, too. I get so sucked into the world I forget that I’m writing. But I think that’s a good thing. If I can get lost, then I know readers probably will, too.
There are a billion other things in my brain that I could ramble about. These are the things that keep me from sleeping, that keep me from even wanting to go to bed. I harbor delusions of staying up until dawn. I’m too old for that shit now, and I know I wouldn’t write. I’d sit here and think about writing and tell myself all the bad things I think I need to hear.
But there are business plans, stories, poems, a kinda sorta comic thing or more accurately illustrated story I think, and work things and life things all whirling around. Fortunately, none of the thoughts are really clamoring for attention. Not at the moment, which is 12:18AM. I can hear the soft, sweet voice of my pillow. The train just rumbled through. I can hear the late night highway hum. I have a lot of shit to do this weekend, some fun, some tedious, all necessary. So I really should go to bed now.
I think I will go to bed now.