"To have and to hold that precious little thing."
Working on "The Motel," a thought comes to me again. It's not that I hate writing, precisely. It's that I hate having to write things that anyone but me is expected to read. Most of the time I'm writing - almost all the time that I spend writing - I have to, on some level, keep an audience in mind. Rarely do I allow myself to step away from that. I did in "7/7/7." I am in "The Motel," which has, by the way, become "The Mote[L] 2032." Curiously, there are no motels in the piece. It centers on two different hotels. But the portmanteau motel serves a purpose, one that may or may not occur to readers.
Yesterday, I wrote a very respectable 1,928 words on the piece. If only I could pull of that sort of word count on a regular basis.
Cloudy today. Overcast. It's currently 31˚F. I might have slept five hours last night.
Neil send me a copy of the very limited deluxe edition of The Ocean at the End of the Lane (William Morrow). It is a gorgeous volume.
Two movies last night. First we watched Scorsese's Hugo (2011). I'm sort of ashamed to say that I'd not yet seen it. In part, that was my aversion to 3D, and my inability to actually see 3D films, and, finally, my horror that Scorsese would stoop to such a gimmick. Table that last thought for another time. Hugo is marvelous, and only once did I wince at a shot - no, wait...twice - obviously staged as a 3D showstopper. Later, I watched Frankenheimer's Black Sunday (1977), which, oddly, I'd never before seen. An effective thriller. Am I the only person on earth for whom Bruce Dern has always been like nails on a blackboard? Anyway, the last five minutes serve as an absurdly sudden wrap-up that entirely defeats the pacing of the 138 minutes that constitute the rest of the film. But, otherwise, yeah.
Please look at the current eBay. Give the gift of me for Xmas (etcetera).
Now, you know.
Yesterday, I wrote a very respectable 1,928 words on the piece. If only I could pull of that sort of word count on a regular basis.
Cloudy today. Overcast. It's currently 31˚F. I might have slept five hours last night.
Neil send me a copy of the very limited deluxe edition of The Ocean at the End of the Lane (William Morrow). It is a gorgeous volume.
Two movies last night. First we watched Scorsese's Hugo (2011). I'm sort of ashamed to say that I'd not yet seen it. In part, that was my aversion to 3D, and my inability to actually see 3D films, and, finally, my horror that Scorsese would stoop to such a gimmick. Table that last thought for another time. Hugo is marvelous, and only once did I wince at a shot - no, wait...twice - obviously staged as a 3D showstopper. Later, I watched Frankenheimer's Black Sunday (1977), which, oddly, I'd never before seen. An effective thriller. Am I the only person on earth for whom Bruce Dern has always been like nails on a blackboard? Anyway, the last five minutes serve as an absurdly sudden wrap-up that entirely defeats the pacing of the 138 minutes that constitute the rest of the film. But, otherwise, yeah.
Please look at the current eBay. Give the gift of me for Xmas (etcetera).
Now, you know.