My truck has a window again.

Only took two years!

Did it myself, and with no damage to the vehicle. I was like, “Kristen! Al! Look! You see that?”

They didn’t know what I was talking about, so I explained it was a 20 G X-Box achievement floating in mid-air.

They didn’t think it was funny. See if I replace their window.

I’m being lazy and/or my writing muscles are tired to the point of collapse. Maybe it’s a little of both, I dunno. I haven’t done any real writing since Tuesday of last week. Of course, in there was the Fourth, and the single worst bout of food poisoning in my life (today’s the first day I’m fully recovered, actually).

But mostly it’s that whole, “What now?” thing that happens at the end of the novel. Usually, I used to fill that gap with Pendant, the Superman Homepage, and little projects. The problem is, my mind’s stuck on Hal. I want to write more of him. I’m thinking about doing a series of short stories in between the novels. The Blonde, a recent novel by Duane Swierczynski, was quite short but had this awesome (and related) backup story that expounded a bit on the overplot even if the main characters couldn’t reach it. Maybe I can do something like that for Hal. He’s also kind of built for short stories, which is cool. Problem is, my story-er is kind of tired right now.

I just submitted the book, however, so there’s a very good chance that things in the book might change, and that I might be called to make the beats different, add a character, change a momentum, or even move the end point of the book, so if I start writing the second, it might be wasted time. Or even if it isn’t, I should just let him rest for a while.

When something is your night and day for three straight months, that’s pretty impossible. I imagine that’s how women feel after carrying a little bowling ball for nine months. It’s gone. Now what?

I’m trying to get my head into research for a potential project, but my heart’s not in it yet. I don’t know if I need a few days, or what. I think what I may need is a reading binge. A few days where I just read and read and read. But I don’t know. Best you can do is try.

I did, however, outline a good bit of the next Hal book regardless. It can always change.

I’ve been cleaning the house a bit, and doing the nuts and bolts stuff that got neglected while I was writing. I think a big goal of tomorrow will be finding a window for my truck. But then again, the title and plates are a month late in being renewed, so maybe I should do that first. I just don’t drive around so much in the truck any more now that most of what I need to do is in walking distance, so it’s not a huge priority. I’m even thinking about seeing if my dad wants it (his truck is on its last leg) and trading it in for a moped or a motorcycle once I take a few courses.

I just called a junkyard and set up the window and the wiper transmission. That’s cool.

Sigh. I just wish I could fucking feel okay with taking a well-earned break.

And perspective is the most key ingredient for profiting from reading the news. I’ve come to believe that. Some people can see “White baby dies in Alabama” and think it worse than “Ten thousand brown folk killed in Tsunami.”

I don’t. I mean, I sympathize for both. I empathize for both. One is obviously a bigger problem, quantitatively speaking. I can acknowledge that the one white child is somehow more important to your mentality, and I won’t stop you from grieving, but I do encourage anyone who wishes to gain perspective to comparison/contrast. And not in that boring way that your English teacher made you, but in ways that actually benefit your life.

For instance, I again bring the example of Michael Jackson’s death.

People have said to me that there is a damned good reason for all of this coverage. Why? Because his actions, even if they went astray, affected millions and millions of people. He was an icon of his time, and his work will be remembered through history. ANYONE, and I mean ANYONE who meets that qualification would HAVE to get a stadium burial. It just stands to reason.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the death of Robert McNamara. In the news today.

I know probably 80% of you are shaking your heads and saying, “Who?” The other nineteen percent of you are probably solemnly nodding and yet still thinking about Michael Jackson. That other one percent is probably like me, you poor shit.

Anyway, read the simple bio in the obit and you’ll see that his actions, even if they went astray, affected millions and millions of people. He was an icon of his time, and his work will be remembered through history, whether you love him or hate him. Having read his book, I’m still not sure if he caused the Vietnam war or was just a tragically flawed soldier who did everything he was told. Or maybe, as he asserted, he never wanted the war and advised against it. At any rate, that doesn’t, and will never in my opinion, excuse this. There are arguments for and against it. There are many passionate people who have threatened me for daring to question his contributions in this matter.

My internal war and debate over Robert McNamara since I first read of him is something that’s really haunted me my entire life, because he did what he was told and achieved a very high station in America, and yet he may (or may not) be one of the most sinister figures who ever lived. That’s very intriguing.

He means a fuckton more to me than Michael Jackson even if I half loathe the man, because he’s had a greater unseen impact on all of our lives than most of you probably know. Do you know how different the world would be without a Vietnam war? Or with an escalated one?

I dunno. I read a LOT of news, and I’m just sick of looking at Michael’s fucking face and barely seeing the McNamara article as a footnote.

A fucking footnote.

Here is one of his footnotes:

I’m sorry. Not interesting enough?

Here:

This is going to be a disgusting tale. You shouldn’t read it. In fact, close your browser now.

All right. I warned you.

I begin to believe that two holidays are cursed for me. Fourth of July, and Halloween. Why? Well, because on both of those I either get in big fights with people, something really bad happens, and I end up either crying or holding my gut with shit sticking to the rim of my ass.

Some of these are my fault. Some of these are external factors. Fact is though, Fourth of July and Halloween are my two favorite holidays. Why? Because they’re holidays for kids that don’t say, “Tell me you love me by giving me a gift!” Instead they say to a kid, “Be creative! Blow off a fuckin’ finger! Play with fire even though you never can anywhere else! Watch adults act stupid! Dress up! Steal candy from the mean neighbors! Prank people!”

It’s my vibe, man.

But anyway, this year Kristen, Al and I were going to go to Richland. We were planning on spending the 250 I was going to get from selling the Eternia playset to a guy in Seattle, get a shitload of fireworks, maybe even (SHOCK! GASP!) drink the one or two beers I allow myself before I run screaming in drunken torpor to vomit in the bathroom. (Bukowski he ain’t, kids)

I waffled with the guy who I was going to sell the Eternia playset about time and date over one email, because we didn’t know if we were going to leave Thursday or Friday, given that we wanted to have time to go to the illegal indian fireworks place and buy all the really cool shit to put in cans buy perfectly legal safe and sane fireworks and have the stands be open.

We decided to leave on Friday, and I sent a note telling the guy so. He calls me Thursday. “I’m here!”

I politely explain that the email said Friday, and asked if that was okay. He said sure, and hung up. Five minutes later he called me back and backed out of the deal because I didn’t come on the right day.

I checked the emails. The final emails from both of us said Friday.

Allessandro and I set out to the citibank to order checks for him. When we get there (1.5 miles away) the place is a Citibank, but no, not a Citibank where you can do banking. How stupid of us to assume. So we call Kristen for our evac. Turns out she’s running late. We hoof it.

I get heat exhaustion, I’m down for about two hours, and then we have to split because it’s getting late.

I’m hot, I’ve got a headache, I’ve just been dicked out of money I needed (I don’t even have gas money to get to Richland, now), so I call my mom on short notice and she purchases my bow from me. I was hoping to get rid of it anyway, and we both made out pretty good on the deal, I think. She’s even kind enough to give me a butt-ton of the awesomesauce fireworks, and I wouldn’t have been able to get them otherwise.

Great, right?

One would suppose.

But I decided to eat quick before I left, because I was tired, hurried, and because dammit, those little taquitos at the 7-11 are ass fat crack-a-lackin’ goodness tailor made for fat nerds. And I’m headed toward being a fat nerd until I start dieting again here soon, so I want to have some fucking fun while I still can, because I’m a hardass on myself when I diet.

I get three taquitos, a breaded cheeseburger thing, and a slim jim. Any of these three could have been what got me. I am not (in a legal manner) saying that the 7-11 in Vancouver just off exit 4 gave me ecoli, but I would strongly not recommend their establishment.

I got a massive headache from the get-go, which got worse and worse as I drove on. I took an energy drink, which wipes out any headache at all, ever, and nothing happened. When we got to Richland, we went to sleep, and I hoped the headache would be gone before I woke up.

I woke up vomiting. I continued to vomit, despite everything in my stomach being already digested. I vomited, and I vomited, Oh, dear Jesus, how I vomited. The bile singed my tongue and made me tapdance. And then I turned around and rocketed my ass to space on a geyser of shit that would have made a sanitation worker give me a thanks for referring business.

I staggered out to the living room and fell onto the couch. Kristen started rubbing me and asked me what was going on. I was kind of slipping into and out of consciousness and became obsessed with the fact that my toes were meat tulips. Sounds kind of crazy, but when she woke up in the chair last night she called me an “ass cabinet,” whatever the hell that means, because if I was an ass cabinet this weekend, it was certainly one without doors.

I woke up at around eleven with a temperature of 100.9. I’m sure it was higher before that, before I started checking. It rose to 102. I kept falling asleep and waking up. Most of that day is lost. I go to the bathroom, and when I return, I go into full body tremors and can’t stop for about an hour. At 2 AM, I sent Kristen to see what emergency rooms cost. Turns out it’s expensive even with insurance. I figure this is probably the flu. It feels a lot like the sicknesses I got when I was a kid, the same degree of pain. I haven’t been that sick since I was 11 that I can recall.

I didn’t eat that day. I think I drank maybe two cups of water, and I tossed those up. I believe I vomited six times, including the one sandwich I ate. This sickness came with that thing that is so rare in the flu (because it wasn’t the flu) the desire to eat. I was hungrier than shit, but I couldn’t eat anything.

At 3 my temperature hit 104.1, and I decided to go to the hospital after one more experiment. I threw off one of the two blankets keeping me sane. It went to 103.6. I threw off the other. It went to 103.2. I remember shaking a little bit, then I went to sleep kind of unintentionally.

I woke up the next morning at about 6 with the need to shit and puke again. I couldn’t puke. Really, I didn’t puke again. But I did shit. It was a small, mucous like string of maybe 1/4 of an ounce, and it burned like fire.

This may sound like an exaggeration, but I did the same thing every 20-40 minutes for the next 24 hours with one glorious two hour break where I believe I was so exhausted I just slept through the crippling stomach cramps that accompanied each and every one. My extensors and flexors feel like I’ve done 839,267 situps.

I tried Pepto. I tried glycyrine. I tried eating, and found that I could keep it down. But the shitstorm would just…not…fucking…stop. I shit and I shit and I shit and I shit again.

You know how you can kind of cheat how fast life is by reading a book in the crapper? You get like, two pages a sitting, maybe. I have a shitter book. Well, I brought “Lush Life” (HAW!) by Richard Price not thinking I’d be reading much this weekend.

Friend, I am on page 184. I did not read outside of the toilet, and I started on page 100. And HALF OF THE TIME, I was in so much pain I could not read.

The next morning, and this is where the story gets really fun, I had wiped my ass so many times that I couldn’t do it without removing skin and drawing a streak of blood. I had an apoplectic fit when a rolled up piece of tissue fell of, and I was convinced worms were falling from my anus. I was dehydrated, and lost. Finally I knocked on the door and told Kristen we had to go get something, anything for this shit.

I could have probably went to the drugstore and asked someone what to take, but I figured, it being the flu and all (by my assumption) they’d just say, “rest, drink liquids, and take pepto!” And then I’d get so furious I’d climb up the counter, reverse position, and let loose a fecalation the likes of which would convert them all to shit demons, and we can’t have that in polite society, because I RESTED, I DRANK LIQUIDS, and I POUNDED THAT FUCKING PEPTO LIKE A SAIGON HOOKER WITH A MECHANICAL BULL VAGINA.

Anyway. I digress.

The doctor comes in, and he says hello. He’s got surprisingly good bedside manner, and he puts his hands on my knees and my shoulders. I felt like a kid again. Unlike most guys, I’m not afraid of close contact with other guys so much. Not much freaks me out, except people who post irrelevant and disgusting things on their blog that are no one else’s business because it’s better than therapy and post-traumatic stress.

Cough.

Anyway, he pulls out a long Q-tip and says, “I need a sample!” I go, “Great!” and open my mouth. “Oh no!” he says. “The nose!”

As he’s walking towards me, he says, “Alas, it’s a brain tissue sample.” I think he’s joking.

He was.

But it didn’t fucking feel like it when he RAMMED IT UP INTO WHAT FELT LIKE MY FUCKING BRAIN!

He pulls it out, and this very kind man says, “Sorry. Can’t tell you what to expect. Too many people pull away and I don’t get a good sample.”

Many people would be angry at this. I laugh, and applaud. I like the cut of his jib. Maybe that’s because something has be removed from my brain. I don’t remember any more.

Then they take my blood. More fun.

The doc comes back, and puts hands on both of my knees, actually bends in really close, like almost kissing close, and says, “Bad news.”

And I go, “Wha?”

“Not the flu.”

And it IS bad news, and that’s why he was such a cool doctor. Not only did he fool a guy who writes fiction, but he totally guessed that I’d be more pissed off that my own personal diagnosis was wrong than that I would be well in 24-48 hours.

He explained that it must be food poisoning, and I asked for something for cramps. He suggested a small prescription and some Immodium.

I was like, “What the fuck is Immodium?”

I’ve not had many over-the-counter medicines. My knowledge is limited (due to their cost) to Pepto, Tussin (Not Robotussin, mind you, listen to Chris Rock for some words on that), that codeine cough syrup they give you when you get bronchitis, asprin, ibuprofen, Excedrin, and those awful throat losenges that numb your throat but suck. Kristen knows what they are. I ask her to get them for me sometimes.

Turns out the Immodium licked that shit in TWENTY MINUTES. So not only am I super-dope for not knowing of a medicine that could save me a day of hell, I am also a shitty dichotomous key of medical diagnosis, and one of my idols is Gregory House.. After all, he knows the code.

I demanded my pills. The stupid pharmacy took half an hour to open. In that half an hour, I shit three times. I could not wipe. I kind of dabbed.

And then I got my pills, took my pills, and did the dance. At least, until I realized my sphincter was a tattered bloody paper mache art project done by a three-year-old given a pair of pinking shears (not really that pink any more). Then I stopped dancing and drank my Brawndo electrolyte drink.

I took a shower just a few minutes ago. The washrag will be burned. Al and I were wondering, you know how in all of those shows, they go down into the flaming heater and put the dead body in there to burn up. How must that smell in the apartments?

Anyway, does that matter? Does any of this matter? All that remains is the eternal question. To spit in fate’s eye, did I go right back to 7-11 and buy another Taquito?

You bet your black ass I-

SWEET LORD NO.

86,638 words.

Blue Collar Slut is finito.

For the last few weeks, I’ve been engaging in the prewriting for the sequel. I have a bunch of fragments and ideas, and it’s already coming together. I won’t start for about a month, but I think I have the title already:

Weak sister:

Origin: 1855-1860

–noun Informal.
1. a vacillating person; coward.
2. a part or element that undermines the whole of something; a weak link.

I can’t explain the title, alas, without giving a good chunk of the plot away. But it makes total sense.

Neal is pleased. And now Neal is off to format a manuscript.

PS: ZOMG 120 pages of editing today.

From Drudge:

As the summer begins, White House watchers have spotted a new look by President Obama: The Evil Eye!

Developing…

The fucking story is… Developing… ?

?

???

Knew I shouldn’tve read it.

Apparent real-world caption (he said through a MacMuffin): BOH-RING!

In a broader line of thought on the Michael Jackson death/its importance thing, I woke up today actually eager to read the news. Why? Because something important happens today.

The end of the fuckin’ Iraq War.

Well, no, not really. I mean, in the sense of the Korean war’s end. We leave this massive force that will never leave, but essentially, the end of major combat operations and the handover of security to the locals, as I understand it. The deadline, the LINE IN THE SAND that conservatives were so afraid would lead to death, destruction, and the icecapades, has finally come, marking an end to something that’s haunted me for six years.

And nobody really seems to give a shit.

Fox News has one story buried in the bottom of the front page, and CNN has nothing. I only went to Fox because I was absolutely galled that CNN had nothing, and wanted to see if Fox had done the same.

They’re both crowing about Michael Jackson, the “DITCH ‘EM DAD!” on Fox News (enlightning story about a guy who fathered a bunch of kids and ran away. And when I say enlightening, I mean who gives a shit).

They’re crowing over the Franken victory (and good, I mean, good, but seriously, that’s middle of the fold shit.) Hell, Drudge’s headline is “BEWARE THE OBAMA EVIL EYE!” with sinister pictures of the president LOOKING AT PEOPLE. Gads.

I mean, here’s a list of the headlines more important than the END OF THE IRAQ WAR:

WDIV: Students shot at bus stop in Detroit
Michael Jackson public viewing to be Friday
Sanford contradicts self on mistress meetings
Ticker: Sanford should quit, poll says
Child found alive in ocean after jet crash
‘79 plane crash survivor recalls trees, thuds
FBI: Duke official offered adopted son for sex
Museum shooting suspect ruled unfit for court
Re-election of Ahmadinejad ruled valid
Complete coverage of Iran’s election fallout
iReport.com: Thousands flood Honduran streets
Girl, 6, lured into home, chained, cops say
Murder suspect’s grin spurs brawl in court
Metro crash victims ‘inseparable’ since prom
Fawcett ‘last of the iconic pinup girls’
Main Line murder case echoes 30 years later
Naked flight crew creates safety video
SI: How David Beckham blew it in L.A.
Freaky clouds show dead singer’s face?
CNN Wire: Jackson fans pack Harlem for…

My favorite is “Freaky Clouds show dead singer’s face?”

The only thing I think remotely worth the top of the fold with the Iraq handover (which has, notably, resulted in some of the violence predicted, but not the massive wave of violence Republicans almost lusted over when they used it as a political weapon) is the Honduras shakeup, which I’m getting firsthand dirt on from my buddy Al. It’s quite intriguing.

Anyway, the war is over, in a symbolic sense. The Iraq War is fucking over.

For now.

No. Wait. That’s not sarcastic enough. How about this:

American war boogie!

Keep On With The Force Don’t Stop
Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough
Keep On With The Force Don’t Stop
Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough
Keep On With The Force Don’t Stop
Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough
Keep On With The Force Don’t Stop
Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough

Stop sneering. I could have went with Man in the Mirror.

Back to work.

I’m still trying to figure out why Michael Jackson’s death is such a big deal in the media. But, given that I’m still puzzling over that, I figured I’d inject some humor into the situation. Last night, I was sitting up and actually wondering why it wasn’t affecting me and yet everyone else seemed to be baffled. That’s when I came up with the analogue…

Michael Jackson dying has the same emotional impact of Optimus Prime dying when I was a kid. Both were loud, prominent, strange media figures whose deaths are catastrophic and unexplainable (ask any five-year-old in the 80s what his reaction to Optimus’ death was.) And, I mean, both made a bojillion dollars!

My friends aptly pointed out it’s be like Michael Bay dying, and the metaphor does NOT fit, but that didn’t stop me from goofing with the CNN obit to humorous results. Original here.

OPTIMUS PRIME DEAD AT 50

(CNN) — Autobot Optimus Prime died after being taken to a hospital on Thursday having suffered an open chest, according to the Los Angeles County Coroner’s office.

A Los Angeles fire official told CNN that mechanics arrived at Optimus Prime’s home after a 911 call.

Paramedics took Prime, 50, from his west Los Angeles Autobot base Thursday afternoon to UCLA Medical Center, where a team of physicians attempted to resuscitate him for more than an hour, said brother Ultra Magnus. He said the famed robot in disguise was pronounced dead at 2:26 p.m. PT.

An autobotpsy is scheduled Friday, he said. Results are expected Friday afternoon, according to Lt. Fred Corral of the Los Angeles coroner’s office, who also said Prime was unresponsive when he arrived at the hospital. Mechanics have been known historically to underestimate their time of diagnosis, however, so it could take as much as three to four weeks.

Fire Capt. Steve Ruda told CNN paramedics were sent to a west Los Angeles, California, residence after a 911 call came in at 12:21 p.m.

Law enforcement officials said the Los Angeles Police Department Robbery-Homicide Division opened an investigation into Prime’s death. They stressed there is no evidence of Decepticon wrongdoing but that they would conduct interviews with Autobot members and Dinobots.

CNN Analyst Roland S. Martin spoke on Thursday with Ultra Magnus, brother of Optimus Prime.

“I talked to Frank Dileo, Optimus’s manager. Frank told me that Optimus last night was complaining about not feeling well. He called to tell him he wasn’t feeling well.

“Optimus’s doctor went over to see him, and Frank said, ‘Marlon, from last night to this morning, I don’t know what happened.’ When they got to him this morning, he wasn’t breathing. They rushed him to the hospital and couldn’t bring him around.”

“Megan Fox is grief-stricken and devastated at the sudden loss of her mentor,” Kenneth Crear, her manager said. “She is … flying immediately to California to be with her family.”

Optimus was the seventh of nine autobots from a well-known musical family (Dare to Be Stupid, 1986, co-written by Weird Al). He is survived by Jolt, Sideswipe, Runaway, Bumblebee, Ironhide, and Mirage.

Optimus’s former wife, Lisa Marie Presley, said she was “shocked and saddened” by Optimus’s death. “My heart goes out to his children and his family,” she said.

At the medical center, every entrance to the emergency room was blocked by security guards. Even hospital staffers were not permitted to enter. A few people stood inside the waiting area, some of them crying.

iReport.com: Your Optimus Prime tributes

Video footage shows a large crowd gathering outside the hospital.

Some of Prime’s music was being played outside. The sounds of “DARE TO BE STUUUUPID!” bounced off the walls.

Outside Prime’s Bel Air home, police arrived on motorcycles. The road in front of the home was closed in an attempt to hold traffic back, but several Decepticons were gathered outside the home.

Along with his success Prime had some legal troubles later in his career.

He was acquitted of Energon cube molestation charges after a well-publicized trial in Santa Maria, California, in March 2006.

Prosecutors charged the autobot with four counts of lewd conduct with an Energon cube; one count of attempted lewd conduct; four counts of administering Energon to facilitate Megan Fox molestation; and one count of conspiracy to commit child abduction, false imprisonment or extortion. Autobots are often seen running around having adventures with children, making prosecutors suspicious.

EDIT: ZOMG. Billy Mays is dead. Don’t let me get my disrespectful hands on that one.

Draft four is in the can

My baby looks like the above, only with a black guard.

When you take a break in the writing to center your brain (which I do occasionally when I hit a passage I just can’t break, or when a really good song comes on the tunes), some people eat, some go for a walk.

I pick up Boner, my guitar, and hit a few songs.

Sometimes you find songs you think would be really elaborate that are quite simple and make your day better.

“Hiroshima” not only serves to make the book better for listening while writing, but to play it on guitar is a thing of beauty. Four chords, very simple, you can rock out without looking stupid. Very much the same thrill one gets from Rock Band.

Musicians turn their nose up at Rock Band, and I can see why. It’s like the NaNoWriMo pisses me off, because it’s a bunch of people who just say, out of the blue, “Yeah, I can do what you’ve trained a decade to do in my spare time, and as a hobby!”

But speaking as a guy who does both, I know why Rock Band is so successful thereby. It makes you feel like you can do what Eddie Van Halen can do without any work.

The parallel being, Hiroshima is one of those songs on the guitar that doesn’t make you feel learning impaired. You pick up, you play, you sing along, and it has that joy of Rock Band. Don’t get me wrong, there are many songs worth working for, but as a warmup and a joy, I just played it three times without feeling like I should stop.

I don’t know about you, but I was more excited to read about a monkey pissing on the President of Zambia than Jackson. I’ve seen that one coming for some time. I’m wondering why everyone’s surprised. Was it not obvious the man was self-destructive? Did I miss something?

At any rate, I dunno if he was a child molesting SOB or if he was a brilliant musician. My only conclusion I have arrived at is that if he had died just after Dangerous, he might have died known as one of the greatest musicians who ever lived, and yet now he’s just kind of in this weird limbo where I can be sitting there, rocking out to Beat It, and thinking, “Uh, is this right? Am I supporting a fucker who buggered kids?”

The best part will be, in a day or so, when the viral video of Jackson in his zombie makeup makes the rounds. Wait for it.

BUT, that was just supposed to be one wry sentence. I’m really writing to thank the many, SURPRISINGLY many folks who offered to read on short notice. You all rock. I will be out many comics, and GOOD. As I’m knuckling in for the last drive, it’s reassuring to know, out of the blue, that more people are reading this blog and that it’s taking hold with my novel folk over my SH folk. Not that I begrudge the SH folk, but as I’ve said for years, being a novelist has been my primary goal, and to drive activity there pleases me a great deal.

(It’s hard to hear over the motor)

I have been spurred by wise advice (thank you Karen and Nunzio) to seek feedback on the new book. I’ve been so caught up in the fun of writing it that I didn’t realize I was reaching the point of nearly turning it in without having shown it around as much as I typically do, and that might lead to an insular fuckarow.

I know it’s pretty silly to ask for you to read the whole book in a week (because that’s when I’m likely to turn it in), but I’m more than willing to let folks, if you want to.

Instead, I propose another idea. If you want, read the first three chapters, and let me know how you think the flow is. Or read one chapter. Or some other idea.

Bottom line, I’m looking for a little feedback, the book feels close enough for me to do that, and if you’re interested, shoot me a line:

bailey.neal @ comcast.net

If I can get a response by Monday, I can pop in your advice, roll with the ideas, and if it seems like there’s some systemic problem I’ve missed, delay the send-in.

Here’s your chance to check out what I’ve been babbling about!

EDIT: I suppose I should throw in a bribe. It’s only sensible. Anyone who reads and responds to at least three chapters by Sunday night gets a copy of Michelle signed in the mail. Anyone who reads the whole thing by Sunday night gets Michelle and some signed Smallville Mags. That might make up for my short notice here.

Howzabout that, kids?

Might as well stop using the graphic, because the book is now proceeding without much change. I’ll just drop a final word count when it’s done.

I did about 40 pages of editing today, and for some reason I don’t feel like that’s enough, so I’m just going to smack myself.

I’m more than halfway through the fourth draft, and with any luck I’ll hit a good clip and be done with this draft by Friday.

If the fifth draft reads as quickly as this one did, I should be done by the end of the month, which is my goal.

I’m trying to figure out if this is sardonic or loving about God.

Tell me?

Either way, it’s beautiful.

One thing I note is that she has this penchant in her songs to do what I do in my poetry, which is to beautifully lead you through one line of thought and then slam you with an inherent contradiction. It’s one of my favorite tactics, because it shows you how easily the mind can be lulled, and how we must be consciously aware.

Hal goes well. I’m not adding much, not deleting much, and that’s the desired state. I did two and a half chapters today, and the day was actually not balls-out, so I’m guessing that I’ll really start plowing through tomorrow now that I’ve had a few days to get back into the swing.

I could just call a bar and ask, but I figger one of you might be a Salt Lake City person.

Can you buy cigarettes in bars in Salt Lake City? Anyone know? If you do, and respond first, I’ll name a character who laughs at Hal when he’s bloody after you, or a “hick-i-tized” version of your name, if it happens to be “Fahreed” or “Odwalla.”

Actually, Odwalla might work in his vicinity.

Well, sometimes research sucks. I was looking up a bit of minutae, and as research does, it wandered here and there, from origins of pulp and noir, to Charlie Huston (someone I am quite fond of), and to Gregory MacDonald, the author of the Fletch books. No, not the Chevy Chase movie. That doesn’t BEGIN to do the novel justice.

At any rate, he’s dead. I just found out, because I haven’t looked up his wiki in a while. Apparently it happened in September.

Why is that important? Well, I guess you can say he’s the first guy who taught me that you don’t need a speaker tag to convey a point. He also taught me the importance of dialogue in place, and the lack of importance of surroundings if the prose is compelling and flowing enough. His later work didn’t live up to the early work, but dammit, I was hoping to meet him some day. He inspired a lot of what I do.

I’m kind of quietly studying the form without talking much about it. I’ve read a lot of noir and pulp and hard-boiled stuff lately. I have become even more extraordinarily pissed with my college teachers for denying me Chandler. And I say denying when I mean making The Big Sleep a chore. I’m re-reading it now, and I’ve learned a few things. One, it’s not a chore, it’s a fucking joy when it’s not something you HAVE to do. It’s also a joy I was too young to contemplate at eighteen. Two, why the fuck would a teacher put The Big Sleep in front of a guy before The Long Goodbye? If you’ve read Long, you know what I’m talking about. The book is a fucking epic piece. In my opinion, The Big Sleep pales next to it in terms of broader commentary. That’s not to knock Big Sleep, that’s just to say, when you’re introducing someone to a work (say, an impressionable, cocky-ass eighteen year-old student), do you give him a piece with a lot of speculation and detective work, or do you give him an almost anti-authority tome that waxes on the lack of importance of money in favor of morality? Beyond that, do you give him an artist’s early work, or his later work? (assuming the author has not gotten worse as he or she gets older, which happens an awful lot, but didn’t with Chandler, from what I’m seeing).

At any rate, point being, I was cheated out of Shakespeare, and that’s a tragedy (HAW), but what I’m learning is that maybe I was tailor-fuckin’ made for detective/wrong man/thriller/mystery, and just didn’t know it because I was never pointed at it. And by tailor-made, I mean to LOVE it. I can’t speak to my value as an author in that regard yet, but I have my hopes. I’m just saying, I think I was given the bad side of Hitchcock and Chandler and Bogie as a kid, and I want my money back.

Anyway, new pantheon authors: Chandler and Block. And I haven’t gone all the way back beyond one book for any of the other notables I’m reading, but my guess is that this year’s going to change a lot of thinking for me. It already has.

This is not to say I’m giving up on what I used to call “literature” fiction, whereby the genre was more than secondary to the ideas presented. What it does say, however, is that I have a new playground that I very much love.

It’s rad to wake up to a kind review, and my thanks to Dan Ruble for nice words regarding my Hillary and Sarah comic.

There’s really no better feeling than when someone gets your work and enjoys what you were going for.

Now… BACK to said work! Just wanted to note the awesome and spread thanks.