Ahhh, what a nice stretch.
This one of those weekends when a writer locks himself in his room, opens his laptop, contemplates root canals (actually writes poetry about root canals that feature tooth rape, which, incidentily will remain hidden in the malee of his laptop files because he finds the metaphor inappropriate), drinks coffee, finger-tongues the latest loose filling, muses about old friends, freezes his toes off because Gas in Philadelphia is hysterically expensive, and works works works on okay literature while reading really good literature (damn you Scott Fitz and your constant illumination of everyone else's ineptitude).
It's one of those weekends, but a good one. The semester winds down, and I'm at the tail end of finishing the latest draft of my newest novel: Permanent for Now. It's going good and I'm proud of how it's turning out. I have to say that there are some significant flaws, but I am confident I will exorcize them Satan-style by the new year, when I plan on shopping this elegant bastard. I'll always love my first novel, because it was a first. I'm sure you're sick of hearing authors compare their literary output as offspring, but not being a father, I can only imagine it this way. And Into the Everything feels like a first born. That expectation, the pain of carrying and pushing, the raising, the letting it go. With the new book, there's a lot more writing for the sake of telling a good story. There's no chip on my shoulder, no needing to prove to the world that I am a novelist. In a lot of ways, the new book is loads better than the first because of it. Also, in three years, I think I've become a better writer.
We'll have to see what other people think.
Also, my travel column in Toujours Magazine is a reality. You can read my first entry about Christmas in Ethiopia at www.toujoursmag.com. My piece starts on pg. 67.
So, back to the books, to the poems, to the holy teeth.