Yellow-Bellied Monkey Snorkel

Yeah, you're all over it with your last statement...

"More vitamins! More technology! Anything but words on the fuckin' page."

Anything but words on the fuckin' page.

But I don't think your time is wasted when you're opening the streamofconsciousness spigot in this blog. I think it's smart to get the juices flowing, if anything (for me) to continue to force a regularly scheduled flow of writing at pretty much the same time every day.

And I'm at my seat, sitting upright (feet on the floor means serious draft time, as oppposed to feet up during casual pinking around...) With the intention of writing some bullshit in here and then jumping into the book.

I see Stephen King not even bother to glare at me over his glasses anymore. He's focused, big bushy eyebrows furrowed into one line of concentration, his monitor's reflection glaring off of his glasses. He knows I'm there, enough that he's shaking his head back and forth slightly, enough to let me know I wouldn't be such a pussy if I just sat down and wrote the fucking story, but not enough to break his stride.

Shit, a guy almost killed him with a van, broke pretty much every bone in his body, and Steve got back in his chair, writing until he was screaming in pain.

But it's getting to that point that's the hard part. Getting the kids into the tub. Once I'm in there, it's grand, and I'll slap soap bubbles around and cover my face with a smooth, wet washcloth and listen to the metallic underwater sounds when I dunk my head... I may never want to get out.

Just get me in there, God, please... Get me in there on a regular basis.