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10:21 p.m. - April 03, 2005
Reprise exeunt letdowns
Wrote a chapter this weekend, though this accomplishment merely reinforces Barbara-the-Editor's agressive write-more-write-faster mantra. While I bristle at the way she prods, I enjoy working with her. She's insistent, has exacting standards, and a phenomenal eye for detail I respect. A while back during the writing of Book 1 I mentioned the project was killing me and she snapped, Regular people die every day. You're a writer; writers don't die until they've finished writing. In her eyes, I'm sure writer equates a pack mule carrying her towards a cushy retirement. Grouse, grouse: Just admit the thrill of excitement when you look at the sales sheets, Jason, and shut up.

It is true - I am mesmerized by the sales figures. Partly fueled by avarice and curiosity, I enjoy this frisson of wonder and burgeoning pride. Just last Thursday morning while I spoke with Barbara-the-Editor she mentioned an order of 65 copies had just come in. It is still rather unbelievable to me, completely foreign to the point of distrust: Something good never lasts and I usually pay for the light times with a patriarchal-length stint of the bad. But facts are facts: I wrote a book and it's selling faster and at a more rapid pace than anticipated. That is worth something.

Professionally the wheat is sowed in straight lines, the weather is benevolent, the harvest promising. Personally I'm adrift in muck and disappointment. Alex called, can't do it and has exited. The last issue of Archaeology didn't arrive. iTunes is acting up. There is a crack in a tile in the shower enclosure right at eye level. These are my distractions, my petty right-heres. I hurt, I am disappointed by Alex. Deep down - not so deep - I had a little hope that I could call someone friend and maybe more. These things happen, right? I just want to know what was the thing that turned me into a no-can-do.


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