So, the past three days have gone like this. Wake up twenty minutes before my alarm, with incredible vim and vigor, which I assume have been mostly unused since the 1930s, walk the dog, go about my morning, get in the car, go to work, be really productive until about a half an hour before lunch, get tired, eat, perk back up, and then, after a short amount of time, just get so tired, so very, very tired, so so so tired, drive home tired, fantasize about taking a nap when I get home, get home, let the dog out, eat, and feel full of energy and vim and vigor. Go to bed way later than usual. Rinse, repeat.
It is as if my body would like to sleep in two chunks, one in the middle of the day and one in the middle of the night.
But I’m resisting.
I never recognize famous people or I recognize them too late.
I’ve lived here since ’99 and I have never, without the Butcher’s help, recognized a celebrity in the wild.
But today! Today I just saw Cowboy Jack Clement at Noshville. He was looking for pickles. And then he ate.
Possibly it’s not that exciting for you, but I am thrilled.
No one is ever going to publish this book. I know that now. I’m saying it up front so that when the delusion that I should send it out sets in, I can look back and see that I already knew this. It’s weird. It’s preachy. It’s weird. Did I say that?
But my god, at least it will be the story I want to tell.
I think I have a Nathan-Bedford-Forrest-ex-machina. I don’t know what to tell you about that. But at least the rhythm of the end finally feels right. I finished writing the big dramatic confrontation and I felt a rush and a let-down when it was over. So, it finally feels like a climax, I think.
I’m going to have to go back and wrestle some with of the tone, but it’s second-draftable, finally.
Just one little bit more.
My brain is pretty much mush though. Mushy, mush, mush, mush.