Yesterday, during dinner with my father, I had a breakthrough. "Holy
(swear word)," I said, during one of our long stretches of silence.
"That's how I should do it!"
"Are you drunk," my father asked me (I wasn't!), but I chose to
abstain from comment as I'd already excused myself and headed back to
my room where I spent the next three hours sorting out several scenes
I'd been thinking about all week. I finally figured out how I wanted
to end a crucial middle chapter scene (important semi-secret revealed
in dialogue!), and that ending coincides nicely with this vignette I
have to write (the book is told in two parts). I know all of this is
vague and sounds semi-made up, but I swear--by the moon and the stars
and the sky-- the connections developed post-dinner yesterday have
rendered my book almost readable.
So that was a positive. Because the rest of the day was utterly
horrible. It rained here, which my dad thinks I had something to do
with ("Do you think it's a coincidence that it's rained twice since
you've been here and once before that in the past month?" "Yes."
"Well...I don't."), and my writing was largely devoid of nouns and
clauses. I did drink seven waters, though.
The Father-Son Relationship Quote of the Day:
During an introduction:
"This is my son."
"He's a writer."
Anyway, I will be taking a side trip up to San Francisco for the next
few days--a city I've never actually been to, but tell everyone that
I love--to see some friends. Now I can't say for certain, but I'm
pretty sure that at least one of the Internets works up there, so we
can continue our conversation while I'm (insert touristy San
Francisco activity here).
And fear not: the hits from 1998 keep coming. Because when everything
feels like the movies, yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive. Right?