I'm grumpy, tired, and half sick to death of my own mind. That can mean only one thing, and one thing only: work on my personal monster of a book is really, and finally working. I mean working in such a way that I doubt I could screw it up. Oh, yeah, I could be whistling past my own tomb, but I seriously doubt it. After all the heart-wrenching planning and the tears of doubt and personal sense of looming doom I'm pretty sure it's all worked. The turning point came this morning two-thirds through the chapter, "house of the blind man".
Now, all I have to do is finish it. Forty - fifty odd pages and finish scripting, and spit shining the whole unholy mess. Rough estimates of an ETA sometime this late spring, early summer.
Nothin to it.
Of course, the fact remains that it may end up in a drawer, unseen until after my passing. Maybe one of those "posthumous" jobs. Maybe not. I know that at the very least, I did it. Maybe that'll be enough. The whole thing has a vague aura of madness about it. A whiff of insanity that's undeniable. But perhaps that's the point. The grand adventure. The daring to fly in the face of what is "current' and "en vogue". I half suspect the book would be better of in the drawer, never to see the light of day, rather than reveal myself a fool to the whole world. For, I also suspect the critical voice at large will just crucify me for it.
If things go as planned you all can hold the nails if you want.
But then again...........just maybe, someone, somewhere, will read it and be changed.
Stranger things have happened.
Oh, just some trivia: I'm currently enthralled by the paintings, ( well the landscapes mostly.) of a gentleman named Glenn Harrington. The Pennsylvania canvases are just lovely. Someday, I hope to have the time to paint pure landscape. Just trees and fields and water and Sky's. A person can dream, eh?
A nod to Dave Sim on the "Glamour puss" project. It looks like a gas.
Y'all behave now y'heah.
PS: the image is of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's death mask.