I have half an hour to write something clever or funny. Quick, quick, quick.
Will you settle for informational? I could aim for human interest. You tell me where it lands.
So I got three horses coming to the farm sometime during the second half of May. That's six weekends, if you're counting, and I AM.
I have black walnut trees all over the place. The leaves are totally poisonous to horses. I saw quite a lot of walnuts (they look like they could re-enter the earth's atmosphere, no problem--they're encased in fireproof capsules) in the front pasture today. Frankly, I'm not even sure what a black walnut tree looks like.
I know what a willow tree looks like: It looks like a giant branch has been ripped off in a storm. But that was no storm. That was a bit of wind. Willow trees are weak. That's why they weep!
The stalls in the barn look fantastic--it will be a crying shame when the horses pee on the wainscoting. But the front sliding door of the barn does not work at all. And I'm thinking, in case of a fire, or in case maybe I want to go into the barn, we need to fix that. By "we," of course, I mean Phil.
Kitchen floor is 99.98 percent done. Needs a little metal thing across the threshold, to keep the tiles from coming up with the opening and closing of the kitchen door. NEVER PAY BEFORE THE JOB IS 100% DONE. never. No exceptions. Lesson learned.
A correlation to the above rule: If he looks, smells, and acts like an ex-con with anger issues, HE PROBABLY IS. Or not. I would be happy to be wrong on this one. Time will tell.
Still writing the book? Why, yes. I had better be--I've said no to paid work. I know, I know! Folly and hubris. Every week now, a new chapter, confounding pressure to write like a real author, no more therapeutic, journaling, creative-writing-class nonsense.
Chapter 17 was a horror. A real horror. I rewrote it this week, so I guess that puts me a week behind. But the revision is better. God is in the details. Pick your moment and go in deep--on the right character--the one the book is about. This probably seems obvious to you. But I tell ya, take one wrong turn and you can spend a lot of time in some strange little subdivisions.
So yeah, I'm writing. And I got a map, but it looks a lot like one of those games where's there's all those choices about where to go, all those infernal dead-ends, and only one real exit. I take some comfort in knowing that I was a little lost. I'm not too proud to retrace my steps, look for that one last true sentence* the one that I wrote somewhere, many pages ago.
I am writing about someone I know and that is turning out to be a little more bewildering than making my characters up. I still think I can do it, though; if for no other reason than I'm getting kinda old.
*Footnote: Hemingway said that. He said, when you're writing a novel and you've stumbled into writing utter crap, go back to that one true sentence, wherever it is, and begin again from there.