I feel as if it should be Thursday, but it actually is Friday. My friends made plans for yesterday that I thought was going to be next week. I missed garbage night and my favorite bar/restaurant is closing.
Poetry is happening, but I’m afraid that the poetry book is not. I took my poetry manuscript out to the cafe for a read. It was not so good. My first poem is a long one, and it is incoherent. It is the one of the ideas I am thrashing out in my memoir. It is stories and not a poem. The middle section is interesting but undeveloped. It’s blazingly obvious that I threw poems in because they fit the theme, not because they were interesting or good poems.
My new editing gig involves checking references in a variety of styles. I began with APA, because I know it best. But it turns out that MLA does a better job capturing the vagaries of the references. After years of despising MLA style (because they insisted on underlining book titles, which is a typewriter convention), I find I like it. My computer is overheating, but I am cold. The sun is full of ice and gives no warmth at all.
Almost every day I write 1,000 words of my schlock novel. I do not think about the 40,000 extra words I need in The Fucker. I do not plan the rest of my summer (anyway my favorite bar is closed, I might as well stay home).
Where are you?