Category: Tom

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Since I’m on first name bases with god he has been asking me for help with his new book. So far we got zombies, and high-speed jet boats, ya know the ones out of that Bond movie, what was it called? I don’t think Sean Conner was in it and it wasn’t that other guy the one who played Anthony Hopkins’ love interest in Lion in Winter. Don’t you hate it when it is just at the edge of your mind and then it gone. The guy playing John was in Excaliber and Patrick Steward. Damn everyone was in that film.

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You may find this hard to believe but god is rather fond of 100 word stories. He told me last Thursday. He said he would have written the bible that way if he had known about the form. I said why don’t you do a rewrite. He shook his head, at least I think it was his head, you know he moves in mysterious ways. He said once ya finish a story it’s a bad idea to go back and monkey with it. I said how about a new book the first one did pretty damn good to date.

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Oh the life of the writer is a lonely one. The hours spent playing Free Cell. Days of sock puppet theatre. Waste paper basketball. Table top football. Cleaning the lint trap and make your own paper. Rearranging the spoons in the spoon drawer. The solitude of the writing process is only broken by moments of dancing in your underwear to Tainted Love. Then back to the blank screen with the humming of the servers in the other room, I humm back. Its like a duets . A wangerian duttle, ill be zegfried and you be Burunhilda. Hell im going take a nap.

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I have been laying cables for weeks. Got a crane to connect them to the first tower. Figured the load bearing with be quiet adequate. I know the material might seem a bit odd at first by after a while I think the average person with come around. I have an army of pigmies harvesting spigettie trees on the Marin slopes Everything is pasta, if those guys in Indonesia can build stuff out of bamboo why not angle hair. So what ya building Tom? I’m building Suspension to Disbelief Bridge. Thank goodness for that grant from the endowment for the arts.

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Write about what you truly love. Nice idea but I know for a fact the known universe can be easily divided into two groups: people who love cats and people given enough bullets would remove the kittyphiles from the general population. Is it wise business model to exclude half the possible purchasers. I thought about that for the better part of a minute and thought fuck-em. More stories about cat I say. I’m going to write the Great American Cat Novel no no A cat trilogy. The fellowship of the cat, the two litter boxes, return of the cat nip

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Some say an author must speak the truth. I say are you craze, if I wrote down half the stuff I’ve seen I’d be dead by morning and the pack with pitch folk and torches would be my immediate family. Lie, makeup stuff and bury anything some idiot family member thought was cute. I’m amazed in spite of amply warning my brother in law will leap over a river of fire to share something I know for a fact would: MAKE HIM LOOK STUPID. One day I’m just going to put in a book, name names and move to Paraguay

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The patrol car pulled me over. Sir you have been weaving down the road for the last 2 miles. Oh I can explain that I was writing and it’s hard to steer. Writing? I like to write when I drive and I need to get it down on paper or it’s gone. You write it down while your driving. Oh heavens no that would be a bit dangerous, I use a typewriter. It was just then that the highway patrolman saw the smith and corona sitting in the middle of steering wheel. He ticketed me for driving under the influence

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I showed my wife what I had written today. She asked me what I had done with my day. I said I wrote these stories. No, what I meant is what did you accomplish, get done. Done? I finished these. I’m amaze how many just flowed out onto the page. Then the smile appeared, the supportive, but quiet disappointed smile. I made her a bowl of soup. Tended the fire deep into the night until the glow remain even with the door shut. As she slept I found I had a story or two left to type by the firelight.

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If you give me 10 dollars I will draw your portrait. The relancatent spinster agreed. I followed her across Paris and was careful to keep my distance. I recorded the people she greeted and noted the people she avoided. After a time I found she never melted into a crowd. After a time I saw she never wasted a moment. At the end of the day I handed her my handiwork a single sheet of paper with no more that a 100 words. She smiled she sighed she frown and she cried. She opened her purse and handed me a 20.