Human Remains

Hello. Sorry I've been away for about five weeks, but the truth is, I've been waylaid by reality. I had a lot of writing to get done for the novel, and one of the first things anyone should know about writing a novel is that, on a good day, it's the equivalent of having half your blood removed and then getting beaten severely. I'm getting beaten a good 90 minutes a night, but pages are being produced. About 12 pages a week, 7 of which are salvageable.

Also, about three weeks ago, my 88-year-old grandmother suffered a heart attack. It was touch and go for a while, with me eyeing what to pack if my mom called to give me that dreaded signal: "You better come out here." Here meaning Chicago. Me on a red-eye flight from Seattle, cresting on the night sky, hoping I make it through in time to be there and do anything for my grandmother.

She's fine now, or best as can be expected. She has my mom and step-dad looking after her. She's been to the doctor, gotten some top-shelf meds, and is resting comfortably. But there's almost nothing else that can be done for her. Due to age and a mastectomy done in the Dark Ages of the procedure, surgery is out of the question. We have learned that the next attack would do her in. So, she sits and rests and copes with the specter of death coming just a little closer. Most of her friends are gone now. She is mentally clear but legally blind. I know she tries to mask being afraid. I know she is scared of the crippling pain of another attack, perhaps punctuating her last moments in this world. It's been a hard three weeks to swallow that she won't be around much longer. You make every phone call count. You pry your mom with deeper answers about how grandma really is doing, trying to decipher if the message is: "You better come out here."

Until then, I sit. My wife comforts me. We pet the cats. I write in the office. The routine becomes secure. Life goes on, until further notice.

During the hiatus, I also lost my writing conference virginity at PNWA, which had me dressed in non-black, non-denim for four days, a period long enough to have me seeing spiders on the ceiling and babies heads turning around. I don't do dressing up. I don't like buttons on shirts. Jeans. Pullover. Dark socks. Shoes or boots. Wearing khakis and a dressy shirt, I'm very out of my element walking the halls of an airport conference center, running into agents and editors, fellow writers, and panicking volunteers. Ended up sitting down for drinks with a Very Big New York Agent who was keen about the novel after I gave probably the best pitch I'll ever make. He wants 50 pages from me, plus a synopsis. Recognition. Excitement. I'm not in a place where I can give him the first 50, but he's game enough to let me hang back and send it in a couple months later. Very Big New York Agent was upfront and honest: "You only have one shot at this. If you need time, take it."

After the conference, after the networking and classes and the drinks that kept coming by writing comrades, after indirectly insulting a music biographer, after pitching with Zen Jedi skill, after believing I could write a best-seller, the Tuesday Morning Blues kicked in after the conference, and coupled with news about grandma, I surfed into anger and insecurity, and that's been lasting a good three weeks. I had been pushing myself to write, to get past the first-draft loathing, to create and soar and not let myself get in the way of the writing process (to deeply mangle what William Gibson once said about how he writes). I had been dredging up new feelings of loss, current vibrations of jealousy, old feelings of hatred to my father. The acid-tipped monkeys were back in the house, and taking up residence in my new cobalt-blue-hued office. I wasn't fun to be around, and it's only this morning, after folding myself in half at the gym repeatedly, that I'm emerging out of the funk.

So, I'm writing more when I can. Keeping myself from the distractions, whether online or the bookshelf, is the hardest task. Once I put fingers to keys, I'm soaring. The new Nine Inch Nails is far better than I expected, good fuel for Patrick's growing darkness. I'm mainly working on him now, going deeper into his conflicts. What Rayelle has to suffer through external pressures, Patrick does on the inside. I think I'm liking working on him if only because we haven't seen a lot of each other lately.