I started work on the first draft of Flesh Pets this morning. I’ve edited four pages so far, and removed a full page of text. Pulling out paragraphs is really tough, as I have forgotten much of the book and would hate to delete something that proves necessary later on.

I think the editing process as a whole will go by much faster than writing the book. What I want to avoid is impatience. After more than a year of work, now is not the time to take shortcuts.

The first draft is done.

105K words are now recorded for Flesh Pets, and it’s still not done! I’m really close to the conclusion of the book, but I’m unable to stop myself from adding more, telling more of the story. When I started I never thought I would have too much to say.

Here’s a sample from the chapter I’m working on right now. In it, the main character, Charlie, has let himself go, let himself and the people around him down and completely isolated himself. He has just learned that his estranged ten year-old son has come to visit him unexpectedly.

I suppose you could make your own metaphors for those singular moments when you are “discovered,” when you are absolutely and undeniably revealed to both the audience of your life and to yourself. Maybe the police come to your door with a warrant for your arrest, or your best friend reveals some heinous betrayal, or you witness an act so vile, your faith instantly vaporizes back into the gas you knew it always was. No amount of composure can buffer against the catastrophic change as you instantly deflate and weakly attempt to re-pressurize for the coming wind. If such a blow comes with enough vigor, it will smash you with a new gaping mouth, darken those two duplicitous eyes, and crush your once tolerable posture. From your corporeal wreckage, you may even recognize the possibility that you will never fully reset these physical features, never again hide from who you are, what you’ve become, and what you’ll never regain.

Still plugging away at the book! I *was* two chapters away from completion, but it appears I’ve found two other chapters that need to be written. I’m not sure where they were hiding!

I’m up to 88,000 words, which is 8,000 more than my minimum. Even though I don’t want this to be a long book, I’m okay with going so wildly past my minimum. I’m certain there’s a lot to be cut during the editing phase.

Here’s a scene from Chapter 17. In it, Charlie recalls a conversation that happened in his adolescent bedroom between him and his friend. In it, he describes a vision he had to his friend. Of course, the entire episode is actually a vision of a memory of a vision. Right, and so…

I lay on my old bed, watching Jeff flip through my meager collection of cassette tapes, many of them purchased on his recommendations.

“Where’s that Slayer tape? The one Barney lent me? I’m sure I left it here.”

“Dunno. Check the deck.”

He opened the player and pulled out the transparent plastic cassette.

“Aha!” He rejoiced. “Now, where’s the fuckin’ case?”

“It’s not on top of the deck?”

“Don’t see it.”

“Hmm…” I rolled off of my bed and started pawing around under my bed. I pulled out a sock.

“Oh, man,” he said. “That’s disgusting.”

“It’s just a sock.”

“Uh-huh.”

I reached under the bed again and pulled out the tape cover.

“Here!” I proudly announced.

“Cool. Give it over.”

I handed him the cover, and he opened it up, pulling out the liner notes and examining the microscopic print.

“Jeff?”

“Yeah, buddy.”

“Can I tell you about one?”

“Sure.”

“You were smoking a joint.”

“That was ten minutes ago, Charlie. You’re slipping.”

“No. We’re a lot older. You’re smoking a joint at my work, I think. But it’s just us, and we’re in the showroom.”

“So far, I’m failing to see the excitement.”

“You’re you, right at this moment. Same age, clothes, hair. But I’m not. I’m older, stronger, and I think my skin is different.”

“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“I’m looking at you, but you’re not really there.”

“Although you confuse me every day, Charlie, I always seem ask what the hell you mean.”

“I’m older, but you’re not. You’re smoking and I’m not. We’re at my work, but I’m pretty sure I’m not on the clock. And we’re just sitting there, not talking or moving or anything. But I can’t stop watching you, even though everything seems strange. It’s like you’re not really there, and neither am I.”

“Technically, neither of us is there.”

“I guess,” I acknowledge, playing with the frayed denim on my jeans.

He stopped examining the tape cover and pivoted his body so he faced me.

“We’re not really here, either,” he whispered. “If I die tonight, I’ll leave no evidence of my life. So it’s like I was never here, right?”

“Huh?”

“Think about it, Chuck. We’ve left no mark, probably never will. Not because I don’t want to, it’s just the reality of life.”

“You’ll leave a mark.”

“Maybe, maybe not. My point is that I haven’t, so technically, I’m not really here.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“See what has been and what the future sees,” he hissed, menacingly, and then burst into laughter.

“What does that mean?”

“The poetry of Slayer is a multi-layered beast, Charlie. To explain deeper meanings requires more cheeba.”

I collected my pipe and baggie from the nightstand and handed them to Jeff. He unscrewed the lid from the bowl and poked around in the ash.

“Another hit, maybe two,” he surveyed.

He fished Thorn from his pocket, rolled the striking wheel and held the flame carefully next to the bowl so that just the tip of the fire would be dragged over the lip and around the remaining nugget. The dark ball glowed orange as he inhaled.

He handed me the pipe, nodding for me to take my hit before the bowl died.

“Hurry,” he muttered through clenched lips.

I held the pipe to my lips but did not smoke. My mind fixed on the smoldering embers, and the room seemed to fill immediately with amber, trapping us in the resin. I could look around the room but no longer move. Jeff’s eyes darted around, yet he, too, remained completely still. We were glued into position, frozen for all eternity in this meaningless moment.

I shouted at him with my mind, yelled out my desire to break free, to move and never stop, but I could not say if Jeff heard me. His eyes stopped moving and seemed to relax, as if he’d resigned himself to this new, unfathomable fate.

I hit 220 pages complete on my book this past weekend, and I STILL have yet to describe in detail the hideous central chimera for which the book is named! However, I’m in the second-to-last chapter now, aptly named “Flesh Pets,” so I’m working out how I will unveil them in a manner that leaves much of the detail to the reader’s imagination.

My main concern is describing their effect on humanity rather than a simple reactions. Yet I want to do this without going into a history lesson approach. I have to be sneaky.

Here’s a bit I worked on over the weekend. It occurs after Charlie has revealed his latest “discovery” to his partner, Peter, and the two have begun working together again after a long, strained period.

Six days after showing Peter my new creatures, I returned home to Claire, wild-eyed and beastly in my own right. During my absence, I acquired the appearance of a madman. I can only imagine those on the highway who saw me in my 1973 Trans Am, t-tops open, the wind blowing my beard and hair swirling around me like a furry turban, barely covering the grimace on my face.

After a week of working with Peter in the lab, I could no longer stand his constant pleas for me to take a stand with my family, either in it or out of it. That afternoon, I threw my lab coat at him and told him to shut the hell up, that I would go see them.

I let myself into the house, unaware that others no longer considered me a resident, and wandered up to the room Claire and I shared. No one appeared in my path, so I was able to turn on the shower without alerting the staff or Claire. I realized on my drive to the house that I needed to clean up prior to presenting myself to her.

I showered quickly and dried off. My hair clung to my face like a squid. I wrapped the towel around my waist and made my way to the enormous walk-in closet we shared. In it, I found only Claire’s clothes.

“Crap,” I said to myself.

“What are you doing here?” Claire asked, appearing behind me, arms crossed, looking slightly afraid of me.

“I came home to see my family. I just wanted to clean up first. Any chance you still have my clothes somewhere?”

“They’re boxed up in the garage. Feel free to take them on your way out.”

“Come on, Claire. Give me a chance to explain myself.”

“What are you going to explain, Charlie? What could you possibly say that would absolve you of months of absence, of ignored invitations, of un-returned phone calls? What could you say?”

“I planned to begin with an apology.”

“Please leave,” she angrily requested, hot tears steaming from her eyes.

“I know I’m bad at this, and I know that I’ve been too obsessed with work, lately. Maybe I can take some time away, now. The project’s at the lab, so I don’t need to work alone anymore. I can…”

“Jesus, Charlie. You think it’s the work? Really?”

I didn’t.

“You’re right, Claire. I just grabbed onto it because it was close.”

She softened at my admission, but remained guarded, pissed.

“You can see him, but then I want you to go.”

“Fair enough. Would you have Thomas bring up a box of clothes for me? I know he’s here.”

“Okay,” she agreed. Before turning to go, she looked me over. During my stay at the garage, I’d lost a considerable amount of weight, mostly muscle. “You look like a damn castaway, Charlie.”

She left me alone in the closet, wet, spindly and surrounded by enough women’s clothing to fill an entire store.