I haven't written anything in a couple of months. Met with my editor buddy two weeks ago and he said, meh, don't worry about it, print out everything I got, give it all to him and we'll start stitching this monster together. Just printing it all out is a daunting proposition. I got something like twelve chapters from one computer, plus whatever shortie shorts I put up here plus I think another three on a little old dell laptop my dad gave me. The little dell has a bad display that I have to fix before I can get whatever I have in there out. I still haven't written the big stuff, the middle, and the end. It's okay, I keep telling myself, don't get stressed out, it's happening, just slower than I would like. Life happens. I started working on old houses again, doing restoration carpentry in Church Hill, decided to focus on work a little more. It's okay, I can get back to it. My editor or somebody recently brought up that song by the Band, When I Paint my Masterpiece. That's what it is, just a big ass painting. I drive around this city and see more shit I want to put in it. The sensation of hand sanitizer drying on greasy hands, the smell of hot trash. Fuck it. It's gonna happen. Fuck the Band, fuck Bob Dylan.
This week I'm not writing anything. I'm getting my motorcycle ready for Saturday when I drive the 640 miles between here and Chattanooga. Family reunion on Sunday, up to my aunt's cabin on Sunday night, then over the mountain Monday morning and up the Blue Ridge parkway. Again. I don't know why I can't come up with a better trip. Maybe I want to learn that road till every lonely stretch becomes as familiar as a lover's body. Run every empty curve til my mind empties and there's nothing left except breathing.
