I hate coming up with titles

The one year anniversary of my grandfather’s death was Thursday.  I managed to be off of work, not really knowing what my emotional state would be and not willing to risk struggling through a day of misery.  I went to the museum park and walked for a good hour and a half, and I felt good.  Good, calm, peaceful.  I miss Poppy.  I always will.  And right now, I can deal with that.  Next year might be different.  But this year, I’m good.  I think it helped that I wasn’t at work.  I think that I might have had a harder time getting to that peacefulness had I been at work, unable to occupy more than a fraction of my mind and that occupied fraction would have been miserable doing things well below its capacity.  I may have gotten through the day just fine regardless, but I am glad I wasn’t at work.  Also took Friday off and spent most of that fighting the formatting for the collection of Jack’s stories.  I have to give up after some five or six revisions.  I can’t pinpoint the issue, but I’m certain it’s due to different versions of Word on different operating systems.  I’ll do better to start fresh, but I don’t want to look at it now.

I’ve also continued work on a new series that I sometimes care about and sometimes don’t.  I ended up breaking one of the main characters more than I planned, but it makes more sense that way.  Unfortunately, it makes him slightly less fun to write.  I destroyed him by the end of the first episode, and he’s not the kind to recover that quickly.  Not that I didn’t destroy the other main character; he’s just a little more resilient.  But that hasn’t been the hard part about writing any of this.  It’s turning off that inner critic/editor/hater.  I don’t know why that little voice is suddenly so dominant, telling me that what I’m writing is stupid and no good and on and on.  Well look.  I never said I was writing great literature.  It’s entertainment, not art.  I’m not Hemingway, and I’m not Stephen King.  I want to write what I’d like to read.  So the inner critic can stuff it.  At least until I pick up the pen again.

Whiskey helps.  Three whiskey sours and most of the most recent Batman movie are enough to make me want to write.  The critic is off, and the horrific mess of the movie makes me want to teach the screenwriters how to do a coherent plot.  Or at least remind them what a plot is.  How can there still be half an hour left from where we stopped it?  Then again, it’s entirely possible that I was far more interested in the whiskey sours and in fact missed pretty much the entire plot anyway.  I doubt it.  At least I can console myself with all the pretty–Christian Bale, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Cillian Murphy, Anne Hathaway.  Oh yes, eye candy abounds.  Plus Morgan Freeman, Michael Caine, Gary Oldman.  But for all the pleasing scenery, it’s so hard to watch.  I have no idea how any of it came together or why I was supposed to care.  In the end, I didn’t care.  What a muddled mess of a movie.  But I was talking about whiskey, wasn’t I?


No, you probably don’t get that.  But I do.  And so does my whiskey.