I spent the morning writing, then editing, then writing chapter one of the book I’ve been contemplating for a while. I should not edit at this stage, but I had to, because I’ve not settled precisely on the sequence of events (or even the events themselves) that trigger the drama I envision taking place as I write the remaining chapters. Between bouts of writing, I conducted more research, which led to still more research, and on and on. I know more about domestic and international nuclear agencies (until I forget) than I ever wanted to know. And I know bits and pieces about the White Flint Metro station in North Bethesda, Maryland, though I’ve not been there. I can describe some of the surrounding buildings, though, and I can give a reliable estimate of the time it would take via metro to get there from the Grosvenor-Strathmore station.
Eventually, I abandoned my writing for more pleasurable pursuits: lunch, an hour plus drive around Hot Springs Village, a stop at the post office, a stop at a grocery store, and other such trivialities. On occasion, I peered at news sites online, a mistake of epic proportions. I learned that the chief idiotic occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is hinting, strongly, that he will pull the U.S. out of the Paris Agreement, putting the U.S. in the rare company of Syria and Nicaragua, countries that opted not to sign the climate change accord. If I had magical powers, I would cause changes to the occupant, changes that would improve this country in many ways. Speaking of the occupant, I watched an episode of House of Cards last night. The occupant in that program reminded me of the real one, except the fictional character is dramatically smarter and far more articulate than the rectal pustule (or should I say anal abscess?) who stalks the halls of the White House. But I digress.
I’ve set an objective for myself that, under usual conditions, I should have been able to meet days ago: ten pages of my novel, ready to edit. But these must not be normal conditions. I keep dripping bits of my novel out of my fingers, leaving other writing to receive the fire hose version, with page after page after page of drivel. That will pass. I have confidence I’ll reach eighty thousand words in no time. After the Arkansas Writers’ Conference and after our friends visit next week/weekend.
I’ve decided to repurchase an old truck I sold a few years ago. How about that? I need a truck if I’m going to do around the house what I intend to do. It’s that simple. I’d actually rather have a 2017 long-bed, hyper-comfortable, all-electric, GPS-equipped model, but I’m a little short of ready cash; about $60,000 short. So, I’ll do the next best thing. This assumes everything works out the way it should.
Oh, the deck needs to be replaced. Did I mention that? I’m still waiting on bids. If the bidders are as prompt doing the work as they are preparing the bids, the new deck should be ready for a party in the waning months of the anal abscess presidency.
Tonight, for dinner, I made an Indian/Pakistani version of arroz con pollo. My wife went out to a girls night out party, complete with food, so I was able to experiment to my heart’s content. I think I may have hit on something special. At least I really liked it; it might be a tad too hot/spicy for some folks, but for me it was delightful. I could have eaten two more servings, if only I’d made enough for two more servings.
I’ve done enough to waste time for the evening. Time to return to PBS Newshour. What? I left it early and, apparently, let it run out completely before I returned. Bad. Bad. Bad.