To-day I finished the first draft Part five or six of my novel, and I feel very good about it, even though I don't know whether it is, in fact, Part five or six.
All this confusion comes from the fact that I originally wanted Part five to be two separate, not physically related story lines. I was to alternate from chapter to chapter between the two.
However, the other day I read through my would be Part 5 for the first time and found this format to be a little offputtingly schizophrenic as I found myself, as a reader, becoming too involved with what was going on in the previous chapter to allow myself to be re-submerged in the other storyline. So I divided this 5 into two parts, and I’ve not really decided which shall be which. In any case, I’ve now finished the first draft of both, so once typed up, it should be presumably easier to decide. I hope.
On Saturday night, Trisa and I went to see Gangs of New York. An incredible movie, and I was mystified, awed, and generally bowled over by Daniel Day-Lewis, who just was Billy the Butcher. I was thinking about how the guy’s just a vessel for these characters or something. Spooky and just great. For me, he has all the mystery and majesty of an elusive forest sprite from ancient mythology.
Before going to the movies, before meeting up with Trisa, I did something fairly unwise.
The bank was closed, and all I had in my wallet was a hundred dollar bill and a check for a hundred fifty. I figured I prolly couldn’t pay for movie tickets with either.
So I stopped at Barnes & Noble on the way to Trisa’s and bought fifty-four dollars worth of books. Unwise, not only considering that I’ve a billion books to read already, but also because when Trisa and I were in another Barnes and Noble later in the evening, just before the movie, I found her dreaming over a seventy dollar anatomy book she’d wanted for Xmas but dinna get.
Rats I thought, Rats,.
I can hardly even recall what I bought . . . let’s see . . .
I got exterminator! by William S. Burroughs, Farewell My Lovely by Raymond Chandler, Wormwood by Poppy Z. Brite, and a great big weird twenty dollar Jack Kerouac book.
. . . yes. Just four books amounted to fifty-four dollars. The prices of books are fucking ridiculous.
No comments:
Post a Comment