Pictured above is my half-shaved left eyebrow. Attempted fashion statement?  Further evidence of my left eye’s secret life? Horrible waxing accident? I’ll leave it to you to decide.

Since my last update, I’ve written another three chapters, bringing the total to six. Word tells me that’s roughly 20,000 words, but Word misses the pauses I intentionally drop, so it is only a physical representation of words.  Or something.

Here’s a sample from the last chapter I completed. Charlie, the main character, has decided to quit therapy, suddenly.

“Gotta go, Doc.” I said, getting up to leave. Dr. Patterson remained in the same posture and did not raise his eyes. I detected weariness in him, and only later could I truly relate to his heartache. Failing at work is perhaps the greatest failing one must endure, for it is public and not amended by apology and gift.

I left him that way, and I never returned to his office again. I saw more therapists after, but each new counselor was a paler reflection of him; I manipulated them with ease. I’ve often wondered about Dr. Patterson since then. I imagine he never let go of me, and tracked my name through news and magazine articles, watched me rise in fame and fortune, make astonishing scientific discoveries and change the very fabric of society. I believe that with each milestone I made in the public eye, he made another note on his legal pad, still trying to help me, still attempting to serve as a guide. I also picture him twenty-five years after our last session, during the peak of my success and the beginning of my fall, laying on his deathbed surrounded by his children, attended to by his frail but devoted wife. Every goal reached in his common life, he exchanged long looks with each of his loved ones, wordlessly conveying to them his pride, love and gratitude. If I truly allow myself the emotional freedom to experience this scene, I can almost bring myself to tears.

My vision of Dr. Patterson could very well be a lie. This I freely accept. It is possible he is still alive and even reading these words. If so, I want him to know that this fantasy life and death I have for him is one I that I hold close to me, that I cherish and envy.

I snapped this photo with my phone this past weekend when I stopped in at the massive Fry’s installment in Roseville. They have a full-size locomotive busting out of the front of the store, which lured me in. Of course, the fun begins and ends with the fake train because once you’re inside, it’s all business.

I can’t decide why exactly I felt the need to take the photo, or what I want to say about it. I could mention the hollowness in his eyes, the general sadness of the shot, the powerfully bad clipping job done by the photographer/photoshopper, or even how the term “proudly” is displayed in the pronouncement.

Having done some time merchandising at a large bookstore while in college, I can sympathize with this guy. I didn’t mind merchandising initially; it was better than working registers or unpacking box after box of Chicken Soup for the Fucking Whatever in the back room. Eventually, the corporate office began creating our displays for us, which sapped any creativity out of the process, leaving me down on the whole process.

Perhaps that is what I see in this picture. Utter despair, paraded around for the customer; a failed ploy by the corporation to convince you that they believe in providing you with a ‘personal touch’ when servicing your wallet.

The fellow in the photo gives up the ghost, though, plaintively expressing his near suicidal pride, so visually subdued by the oppressiveness of his retail life, he can’t even muster up enough false enthusiasm to crack open a yellow smile. Maybe he’s afraid that if he opened his mouth just a bit, he would vomit out his soul.

This is a picture of my writing station in room 11 of the historic Holbrooke Hotel in Grass Valley, California. My wife picked out the hotel for me. My only qualifications for the room were a desk, WiFi, restaurants in close proximity, and a small town vibe.

Although I confirmed the room had a desk over the phone, when I walked in, the desk was a tv tray (folded up and leaning against the dresser, in the photo). Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to comfortably type for hours on a tv tray, I set up a keyboard tray on the ironing board and spread my crap out.

I had a full size keyboard, built for speed and maximum clack-ability, a mouse, a jug of trail mix, a badass hat, a two-cup French press and coffee, and a Sigg full of whiskey.

The ironing board surprised me with a delightful bounce, so I felt as if I was resuscitating a lifeless body as I typed. However, I could not confidently rest my drink on it, and when I did, spills did occur.

Spilling whiskey, it’s just not right.

I’m in the Woodland Library this afternoon, pouring out another chapter before I head home. I was evicted from my hotel room this morning and thought it best to head back and work for a few hours here.

I wrote more than 8,000 words in the past two days, and a few of them are keepers. While I predicted equal parts success and failure two blogs ago, I can honestly say that the exercise was, indeed, a success. Whether or not the work is of any decent quality is another matter.

At this point in my life, in my career of writing, I am not very concerned. The point is to get the story out. I will worry about quality later.

Here’s another excerpt. Our narrator, Charlie, has just embarked on his life as a “reverse engineer”:

My father continued to bring home broken things, and I would take them apart and fix them. I commandeered the entirety of the garage, forcing my parents to park their vehicles in the driveway. My mother accepted my enterprise, but not with the same enthusiasm as my father. Perhaps she saw something else inside me, something missing. We were not an affectionate family; rather, we lived as three islands off the coast, each with our own economy, our own need to maintain independence. When I think back, I cannot recall a time when we ever hugged or kissed except when protocol dictated.

I never questioned this lack in our family. It simply was. But now, I consider my own demeanor, my inability to maintain relationships throughout my life, save for one ill-fated friendship. Was I the cause, or the effect? All that is left of this family is me, so I cannot ask such a question to anyone but myself. And when I do, no answer comes, only an irritating sense of loss. What once was my shelter, my protection from the world, my only experience with trust and love—it is gone and will never return.

I started my writing vacation in a library in Grass Valley, California. It’s the size of a gas station, and was littered with people, even at 10:30 am on a Thursday.

I’ve restarted my intended story, written a chapter already. I planned to write a script, but what is coming out of me is a narrative. I don’t know how to change course of what feels inevitable, so I won’t.

The first chapter is called “Abstract,” and that is exactly what it is. It’s a preface of sorts, a pronouncement of what the speaker hopes to accomplish.

Here’s the opening paragraph:

The past stretches out for the future, and the future keeps a hand out to the past, while in between on a razor-thin precipice coated with oil exists the present, a place I do not recognize, cannot control, and will never be a part of—a dream, a fantasy, a lie. Not the lie we tell our parents, when we assure them that we are doing well just as we subtly hint at our deep, personal peril; nor is it the lie that explains away distraction to our wives, that assures them we are still okay, even as our eyes track a mosquito humping the thick rind of an orange on the kitchen counter.