Strep is a bitch and a pain and now that I’ve got that out of the way I’ll endeavor to remember what I really started this post to say.  Perhaps it was to confess that now that I like 4 whole Coldplay songs I’m going to have to start calling myself a fan.  No, that wasn’t it.  It’s damnably difficult to write a good kiss in fiction.  I’m pretty sure I meant to say that, but not yet, not right now.

I’m on the 16th chapter of my novel.  I have only 19 chapters total.  I’m in the home stretch.  I was definitely going to say that but I think I was actually going to shout it, first here, and then from my back yard so I could rouse all the cats and dogs in the neighborhood into a satisfying clamor.

I like irreverence and I like the bottom line but nothing in between.

I AM the bottom line most days.

Just counted words so far: 82,182

A number any obsessive compulsive can appreciate.

Projected total number of words: 100, 782.

Arrived at with a minimum of scientific attention.

I expect to reach that number by Friday.

I want to run through the streets yelling like a madwoman all the things that run through my head all day long.

Please don’t be offended if you’re a close personal friend of mine but it’s a fact that if you and I are anywhere near close friends then you’re mad as fucking hell and most certainly would have spent time in a sanatorium with me in the 1920’s.  I am not truly close to any genuinely mentally stable people.  Not a single one.  And don’t think I don’t know mentally stable people, because I do.  I’m just not close to them.

“Fuck you” is a very rude statement.  Or exclamation, if you prefer.  Yet I can’t deny how satisfying it is to say.  Every time I throw a fist into the air and give my war-cry I punctuate it with a resounding “Fuck you!”.  I understand that this is repugnant to many gentle people, but what I want to know is, what do you say that is equivalent to this?  And if you say something that measures up in sentiment then how could it possibly be more acceptable than my choice phrase?  If the feeling behind the words is the same then it isn’t the words that are objectionable but the sentiment.  Right?  Or wrong?

If you say “Curse you!” instead of “Fuck you!” is it not the same thing?  And if you say “Smudge you!” is not your heart expressing the same damnation to me as if you said “Fuck you!”?

Personally, if I believed in God I would have to credit him with enough wit to know that words are words but what’s in a person’s heart is what matters and if you take away the words “Fuck you!” and make them wrong to say, a person will still sometimes have that fuck you feeling and find a fresh way to express it because people’s feelings are generally irrepressible.

Which if I’m being totally honest, is one of the most charming things about us.

I’m trying to give Cricket and Grey a little moment of peace for courting and you have no idea how hard that is to do.

Because if I’m not careful I’ll make the whole book a blossom-drifting honeymoon just because I love them so much but my job as an author is to make them suffer enough for you to take an interest.

What does that say about you?

If you don’t like the tone of this post I suggest you direct your dissatisfaction at Coldplay, most specifically the following songs: “Yellow”, “Viva la Vida”, and “Clocks”.

Chapter sixteen of Cricket and Grey and this post are brought to you by those songs.

I think I need a wee break to watch “Downton Abbey”.

Or maybe I just stay up to write the rest of the chapter?

Can I pace myself and get done?

You know, I don’t think I can.  I think this is hell-for-leather time to the finish line.

Hell or high water.

I wonder what you all are biting the air to get finished, what are you all so excited about you can barely keep from exploding into a dirigible?

That thought is brought to you by my ten year old son who put a dirigible in a five page story he wrote because he wanted to.  Not for homework.  My little guy who has such a hard time writing (for practical reasons) is telling me about the books he’s going to write.  He’s proud to be the son of an artist and a writer and he works at both in his own violent style and it occurred to me today that he and Quentin Tarantino would have so much to talk about and while people (teachers, other parents) may feel shock at his zombie comics with all the severed heads and visceral pools of blood, I think the kid’s going to be alright.

As long as I can keep him alive to adulthood.

So I leave you now to go attend to the courtship of a pugilistic young woman who is learning not to feel alone.

It’s good to be a fictional character in my coterie.

I salute you.

Yes, you.

Last thought of the night: I tried to love a Waterman.

There you go.  My soul, emptied for your enjoyment.

xoxo