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Almost finished with Chapter two – this book is just pushing out. Seems good too, but I'm probably too close to tell. Have to figure out a way that the Dalai Lama assassin can struggle out of manacles and shackles in the police station so I can kill him off. Also have to figure out some glaring physical abnormality apparent only upon autopsy – third kidney? Hidden uterus? Obviously artificial blood cells? – dunno.
Chapter three will be a major detour from the outline – I'm gonna cram a bunch of Johnny Blessing's backstory into the autopsy scene (he's Vanya, of course, in his own POV.) A scene in a Russian teahouse where Vanya plays some bizarre opening gambit in a chess game while talking with an elderly Ukrainian guy about breadlines and Chechnya. A scene where Vanya's girlfriend starts screaming and throwing things at him — "Miserable pig! Piece of shit! Fucking [insert colorful Russian epithet of choice]. She's dead, she's dead, she's dead!" Girlfriend collapses in his arms. It wasn't his favorite foreplay, but it got her hot. Then comes Big Sex Scene.
In other news – Ben's mom here visiting for a week. Nice to see her. I think she's finally realized that despite my many shortcomings, I'm a better bargain than Jon's girlfriend Lydia, though not (of course) as good as Jon's ex-wife Rachel. Funny thing. I can distinctly remember Rachel cowering in the kitchen, in tears because Nancy Said Something, at some point over the long weekend the whole extended family gathered in Millport to celebrate Nancy's sixty-fifth. But now that she and Jon are divorced, Rachel can do no wrong.
Nancy, Ben and the boys went to a horse show yesterday, and I went off to Santa Cruz. First to see Stew and Annie who were working on songs in Stew's dream music studio. Then to Lupin (Nakie Camp!) for Susie B's birthday party.
Annie and I have gotten very close over the past couple of weeks. The shared experience of constant rebuff has forged a bond deeper than blood. Annie coined a term for it: query-phobia. We're on the phone every day, comparing our latest humiliations at the hands of unseen agents.
"Do you know what he wrote me back, Patty? Not even a form letter. He scribbled, 'You've got to be kidding!' on a post-it."
"You know, Annie, I think being a writer is a lot like being gay. For years, you struggle against it. You stay in the closet. And then when you come out, it's constant shame and hideous rejections. I almost look forward to the day I finally give up and embrace my destiny as an AM/PM mini-mart night manager."
Annie and Stew are Not Getting Along though the current is subterranean as of yet. When we talked about my visit, Annie sighed and said, "Stew has me booked in the studio all day, working on songs."
"Well, I'll only stay for half an hour, Annie. I'll bring my camera. I'll take studio shots! I'll be Annie Liebowitz!"
"Patty dear, Stew does not know who Annie Liebowitz is. He has the pop culture curiosity of a raccoon."
"But that's why you love him."
"Right, Patty! Thank you, Patty! That's why I love him!" And she laughs.
So Stew's studio is very impressive. All the rock 'n' roll toys a boy could want and then some. Guitars, drums, lava lamps, dat decks, decks with flashing lights that do God knows what. Stew played me the songs he's been mastering into a CD. Easy listening rock 'n' roll. Not my favorite elevator music. I caught some whiffs of Annie – Brazilian rhythms, African beat, soulful violin catching the melody unaware. But mostly it was bland. If I heard it on the radio, I would immediately play with the dial to see if there was some right wing talk show host I could listen to instead.
Annie was itchy. She kept sneaking looks at me. At some point, she interrupted the music to tell me about an adventure she'd had in the supermarket the day before, a woman in the throes of the early menopausal urge to HAVE MORE CHILDREN to whom Annie had said, "My dear – you need a twelve-step intervention –"
"Annie, I'm trying to play some music for Patty here, "said Stew.
"Well, God knows I listen to enough of your stories, Stew," said Annie. And she laughed some more.
After that, it was off to Lupin. I didn't know whether I was going to strip or not until I got there – taking off your clothes in public, even at a naturist resort, is kind of a big step once you're past fifty. I'm not particularly fond of the body I inhabit. But whaddiya know, other people looked worst than me so I stripped and sunned and swam and ended up in a hot-tub with five naked men arguing about the War In Iraq and it was bizarre because, of course, when you're with a bunch of naked guys, really you want to be staring at their dicks, not discussing territorial imperatives.
Chapter three will be a major detour from the outline – I'm gonna cram a bunch of Johnny Blessing's backstory into the autopsy scene (he's Vanya, of course, in his own POV.) A scene in a Russian teahouse where Vanya plays some bizarre opening gambit in a chess game while talking with an elderly Ukrainian guy about breadlines and Chechnya. A scene where Vanya's girlfriend starts screaming and throwing things at him — "Miserable pig! Piece of shit! Fucking [insert colorful Russian epithet of choice]. She's dead, she's dead, she's dead!" Girlfriend collapses in his arms. It wasn't his favorite foreplay, but it got her hot. Then comes Big Sex Scene.
In other news – Ben's mom here visiting for a week. Nice to see her. I think she's finally realized that despite my many shortcomings, I'm a better bargain than Jon's girlfriend Lydia, though not (of course) as good as Jon's ex-wife Rachel. Funny thing. I can distinctly remember Rachel cowering in the kitchen, in tears because Nancy Said Something, at some point over the long weekend the whole extended family gathered in Millport to celebrate Nancy's sixty-fifth. But now that she and Jon are divorced, Rachel can do no wrong.
Nancy, Ben and the boys went to a horse show yesterday, and I went off to Santa Cruz. First to see Stew and Annie who were working on songs in Stew's dream music studio. Then to Lupin (Nakie Camp!) for Susie B's birthday party.
Annie and I have gotten very close over the past couple of weeks. The shared experience of constant rebuff has forged a bond deeper than blood. Annie coined a term for it: query-phobia. We're on the phone every day, comparing our latest humiliations at the hands of unseen agents.
"Do you know what he wrote me back, Patty? Not even a form letter. He scribbled, 'You've got to be kidding!' on a post-it."
"You know, Annie, I think being a writer is a lot like being gay. For years, you struggle against it. You stay in the closet. And then when you come out, it's constant shame and hideous rejections. I almost look forward to the day I finally give up and embrace my destiny as an AM/PM mini-mart night manager."
Annie and Stew are Not Getting Along though the current is subterranean as of yet. When we talked about my visit, Annie sighed and said, "Stew has me booked in the studio all day, working on songs."
"Well, I'll only stay for half an hour, Annie. I'll bring my camera. I'll take studio shots! I'll be Annie Liebowitz!"
"Patty dear, Stew does not know who Annie Liebowitz is. He has the pop culture curiosity of a raccoon."
"But that's why you love him."
"Right, Patty! Thank you, Patty! That's why I love him!" And she laughs.
So Stew's studio is very impressive. All the rock 'n' roll toys a boy could want and then some. Guitars, drums, lava lamps, dat decks, decks with flashing lights that do God knows what. Stew played me the songs he's been mastering into a CD. Easy listening rock 'n' roll. Not my favorite elevator music. I caught some whiffs of Annie – Brazilian rhythms, African beat, soulful violin catching the melody unaware. But mostly it was bland. If I heard it on the radio, I would immediately play with the dial to see if there was some right wing talk show host I could listen to instead.
Annie was itchy. She kept sneaking looks at me. At some point, she interrupted the music to tell me about an adventure she'd had in the supermarket the day before, a woman in the throes of the early menopausal urge to HAVE MORE CHILDREN to whom Annie had said, "My dear – you need a twelve-step intervention –"
"Annie, I'm trying to play some music for Patty here, "said Stew.
"Well, God knows I listen to enough of your stories, Stew," said Annie. And she laughed some more.
After that, it was off to Lupin. I didn't know whether I was going to strip or not until I got there – taking off your clothes in public, even at a naturist resort, is kind of a big step once you're past fifty. I'm not particularly fond of the body I inhabit. But whaddiya know, other people looked worst than me so I stripped and sunned and swam and ended up in a hot-tub with five naked men arguing about the War In Iraq and it was bizarre because, of course, when you're with a bunch of naked guys, really you want to be staring at their dicks, not discussing territorial imperatives.
