Any way is a good way

by Joni Abilene

Slow and steady progress. I remember writing a book in a month. Ah, how I wish I could do that again. To just sit there and put my whole life into a manuscript with no insecurity, no worries of whether it’s good or not. Now I write with a rude editor (me) lurking over my shoulder, but  if I turn off the editor it’s like something isn’t catching, my mind is off in lala land and I can’t lock into anything that makes sense. There’s something to be said for the trance period that occurs after about twenty minutes of writing. If I can allow myself to get there, things so start to lock  in and run much more smoothly.

I’m almost done reading All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers in which the lead character Danny Deck experiences the worst book signing ever known to man. At least he had three bottles of champagne there to drown out his sorrow. And then he had Jenny Salomea and Emma Horton to further ease his humiliation. I’m just around the end, where he and Petey get pulled over  in the El Chevy. It doesn’t look good for old Danny.

Yes, it’s time again for me to get off my duff and make some grub, breakfast style. No pork involved.

It’s later, and I finished the book and am depressed about the last chapter. I don’t think any book has had a character so utterly broken down as Danny Deck. I kept thinking something good would happen for the poor guy, but it never did. The best things happened near the beginning: sex, marriage, a book deal with a major publisher, after that his whole life slipped away quite miserably. It was a beautiful book in so many ways; disgusting in others. I’m sitting here feeling the effects of having read it so intensely the last few days, and yeah, I’m a little depressed. I’m depressed for Danny. There’s so many times where, if an event in the book had happened differently, Danny’s life would have been made better and things would have turned around. But it didn’t. Just like real life.

Ah well, I have another book to read. Maybe it will lift my spirits.

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