am writing a book. my first book, and my first story (in fact) in many, many years. it’s about this road trip i took a coupla weeks back to see a girl i loved (who i met online almost two years ago), which ended in deep personal devastation, and which i am in the process of recovering from (with fine enough results, more or less, so far – all things considered). let’s say for now that i “pulled on Trouble’s braids”, to quote Tom Waits. the book will be somewhat similar in tone to Kerouac’s The Subterraneans, if for no other reason than it’s about a short, ill-concieved affair which ended in disaster, but was great, wonderful fun at the time and provided an adventure, and deep heartbreak, if nothing else. no title as of yet.

the only thing that i worry about with this book is the fact that there are so many other really truly great writers out there, not the least among them is Jackie Corley. she, as i have said before, many times, and will continue to say again and again and again, until somebody finally wises up and listens, is the single most important (and amazing!) writer of the twenty-first century. how i will ever be able to write anything that even comes close to being as innovative and beautiful and important and evocative as her Foster is, i don’t know. i doubt if i even could. but i will write my ass off nonetheless, without regard to my fine, fine, most excellent and worthy “competition” (i use this word ever so lightly, as i could never compare to her amazing and PROFOUND genius, and anyway, count her as one of my literary heroes, and social peers).