Halloween is Next Week and Fall Note Book Page ten (October Draft Pages 2 of 2)

(Note: (UPDATE. SLOWLY DELETING A TON OF THINGS. This is a longer post than usual. An old school word collage if-you-will. The Reason? I want to. Also, This blog will be down  and offline beginning Sunday. It will remain that way for a good month. Among finishing my book and going on a short tour, I’m going to clean up this site and organize it. that will probably take a while. As always, thank you for reading.)


Before Draft…

Six hours ago after tigers won the game there was…

Hot coffee.

I opened the door. A big bug runs into me…

Damn. Fly much?

This happened. I laughed. I spill hot coffee all over my white shirt.

For two hours…

I make books. Cut paper. Type on my typewriter and Listen to the radio. What station. All of them in short intervals.  NPR wont come in. I think they do that on purpose here.

Later on…

I sit at the computer. I mess around and then get to work. I edit and send emails and think about cleaning up this mess.

Within the hour…

I decide it’s best to call it a day. The book is once again moving slowly. I have to work on the second book in the dead writers series. I’m thinking about the government shutdown. I’m thinking about how everybody feels bad for the police officers who don’t get paid but have to work because they’re essential. I feel bad for them…

I feel bad in general. I think about the abacus. I forgot to move the number forward. I guess I’ll start over. Why not. I mean..

I go back to feeling bad about the police officers. I also feel bad about the lady that lost her mind. I hope they give the baby health insurance. The mind is an inherited possibility. I think about what this means to my existence. I wonder If I’m essential. The writer. The historian. A human.

The lost…

I’m always on the clock. I can’t shutdown. That’s what they call privileged. Thankfully, it’s break time.

A minute ago…

I open the door. The bug runs into me. It’s dark. The light woke him up.

Damn. Fly much? I spill cold coffee.

Ten seconds ago…

New message. Dear so and so. Do you know, how to get gorilla glue off your hands.


Waiting. No response. I’m posting this. I’m going back to work.

part 1




Day 20. Sixth Draft. Short Note.

It’s almost 7am. October first two thousand thirteen. I don’t know what’s going on in the world, especially my country. Well, I think I do, but if I think too long about it, I feel crazy. The politicians are losing their cool. There are normal good people here. It’s hard living, that’s the nature of existence. Do they want to make people hate each other? Nonsense. I’m not going to think about this for the rest of the week. We don’t matter all that much. It’s history. I have important things to take care of. Media numbness no more. I’m going to keep working on my novel. I got another two thousand words edited. Work for another hour and then punch out of the mines. It’s getting close. Page 92 of 486. 

Have a good week. Keep at it. Thank you for reading. 


“Sounds like a scam to me. That’s all I’m saying”


Start second book in the dead writers series sometime this week. back to the going. Hopefully have novel done by end of the year. Other than that I don’t know what about much else. start section. Peace.

The first corpse. I knew him. Officer Malinowski. He picked me up once and drove me home. I fell asleep after work on a bench. He said,
“That’s how you get yourself in trouble.”
“Sounds like a case of the fear” I said.
“You don’t know shit boy.”
That was two months ago. Right after the bender. Never thought I’d see him again. I don’t think he remembered me, and so feeling a bit better I was back to the apartment. It was strange. Cops were outside and yellow tape was blocking the entrance. First responders were wheeling a body-bag. I saw the face of the dead man who was getting zipped up. It was this guy who lived below me. He was weird, hardly knew him. I think I said “hello” to him once. Now he’s dead. I was out of breath.
“Sir, officer, Malinowski, um, what happened?”
“I guess you could say… Henry?”
“He was murdered.”
“Yep. Sad ending for a sad son of a bitch. So you know anything?”


Writing is weird

andBelow are a couple of drafts from my book. I will delete them in a couple of days or so.As always click to enlarge if you wish to read larger font. Alright one more smoke and off into the mines I go.Now for a warm up. 

I wasn’t a writer and that was fine with me. It was a vacation. I was on the water and jumping fences and climbing hills and looking over cities. I was talking and watching movies and drinking and that was all just fine with me. For three days I was happy. I wasn’t a writer. Waking up on Monday the leafs were falling. We both had sweaters on. The Summer was over.

After a nice long weekend I forgot about the screens. I turned away from the computers and the keys and the sitting posture of leaning back with legs out under desk and watching the words scroll on by and then getting stuck. I’m going into the sixth draft of my novel and it’s weird because the world is weird. I keep hearing the war towards Syria and I don’t know what to say about that. I believe that A country should never bomb another country and that killing no matter what is wrong. Nobody listens to peace because it’s cheap, but it sounds like it’s going to happen no matter what, and does the U.S.A have to, are kids being killed? It seems to me that 100,000 people already died. Why didn’t the United States do something sooner? Chemical weapons and bullets are the same when people are dead, and this comes down to power and money. I don’t know what anything is about in the real world but it seems just as weird as my novel. That’s not my war and when it comes down to it the real world is their novel, they will make the decisions regardless of what I say and think. My mind is thinking about my book, and it’s strange how close it resembles some of what is happening. Writing is based on mathematics and when you work with words long enough everything sometimes lines up, sometimes this is what gives science fiction writers the prophetic sense of things to come. It’s not because they have seen the future but really time is all one line and everything brings you up to the now. What happened will create what happens. That’s all obvious. It’s just weird and I’m just writing right now. The fan is spinning on my bare arms as the water from the shower dries. I feel alright, just alright. Nobody asked but I think it’s important when you’re working on the writing process in novel form as much as I have been for the past year and half to keep track of your mental stability. You can slip too far into your story, you have to stay back and walk around, look at things, and even if it’s first person you have to keep the calm during the editing process. It’s just weird. I’m just waking up. It’s going to be a long night and that’s fine. Editing other people’s work and editing my novel is something another thing that I didn’t know about, as in how draining it was going to be. But you have to fight on and keep everything in order. Clean up the shop and make sure you sleep. I sleep, been sleeping good, looking forward to sleeping again, looking forward to the end of this book, and it’s not as if I don’t enjoy writing it, it’s just a different world. It’s crazy and it’s a real functioning world that takes part totally without the need of this world. The world in my book is alive and that’s what’s weird. It’s all weird. writing is weird. I am weird. I don’t know. Back to the real work. Have a good day and thank you for reading.

sundraft cloud