Today I finished the last chapter of Part One, bringing me officially to the 1/3 way mark.

The last chapter is something of an anomaly, and I will no doubt have to go back and provide some balance to the others. It weighed in at more than 5,000 words, which puts it 1,000-2,000 more than any other chapter. Even then I felt at times like I was “going too fast.”

One of my goals with this book is to write for the current generation of readers, namely, me. These days, 90% of my reading is of blogs. News blogs, game blogs, personal blogs, etc. I feel like the next generation of readers isn’t going to lean on IM glyphs, but they are going to expect a heightened level of conciseness and connectivity.

When I mentioned this goal to another writer, he wondered how it would be possible to engage an audience in this manner. It’s possible that I can’t or won’t. And it’s possible that this will be a failing of my prose rather than the idea (Lord knows I rely way more on idea than prose). I’m not looking to write poetry, although I hope my conceits are well met. What I’m hoping to do is provide conciseness and good pacing in a long narrative. Thus the concern over the latest chapter.

Even this blog entry is three paragraphs too long. However, I’ll end with a snippet from the latest entry into Flesh Pets.

This is the longest chapter of my life, a time when the visions receded and the principles of fate staged a coup on determinism. My choices, my very voice, served as little more than a defensive gesture to the cancer that consumed Jeff.

The cancer would destroy him, effectively kill itself, and leave me a carrier of two dead creatures. I never asked questions about cancer, never wondered why or how it came to be. Those around Jeff asked, over and over, to themselves, to each other, the why and the how. I learned to nod or shake my head depending on the tone of the inquiry. Perhaps my indifference was merely a signal to the coming change, or a regression on my part, back to a state of innocence, back to what I knew before I met him.

A month after the accident, Jeff was released from the hospital, his clutter of casts and bandages receding to a simple set of two modest splints and a rib-guard, the once-stitched wounds on his head now simple scabs glossy with antiseptics. I drove Jeff and his mother home in her car, both of them looking out opposite windows in the back seat.

Jeff possessed a queer smile, something between happiness and surrender. I said nothing of it.

I said nothing at all.

Something I’ve discovered lately: I now care less about winning than I do about just playing. Sure, I’ve said for years, “I just want to get some exercise, that winning doesn’t matter, that I could care less.” But the truth is that I WANTED TO WIN. Like, a lot. ALWAYS.

Winning isn’t about just getting out and trying your best. It’s punishing your opponent. It’s witnessing another who is weaker succumb to your power. It’s rising in the air, golden tan, ripped muscles, and winking at your opponent as you place another unbelievable lay-up into the basket.

Yes, I’m talking basketball.

Yes, I’m talking win.

Last year, a friend of mine suffered a career ending injury as I performed a move known as “rocket-man.” Although it wasn’t anyone’s fault (at least according to me), the transition of my friend from competitor to invalid distressed me and ended the season for us all.

Now, a year later, I’m playing again, and I’m overly cautious. Gone is my relentless desire to pummel the other guy. Rather, I’m concerned about getting hurt and, gah, having fun.

To be certain, I did in fact issue fountains of win upon the frightened face of my opponent this past weekend, but that’s beside the point. The real truth is that I didn’t get that killer instinct like I used to.

Therefore, I am old.

Before he died of cancer, my best friend, Jeff, asked me to write our story, to write the silly, stupid and serious things we did as friends. I nodded and told him I would.

I’ve mentioned this before on this site. It’s no secret to my friends and family. I’m beholden to Jeff. I must honor him and myself.

It took me several years to understand that his request did not limit my scope; in fact, it merely broadened it. I don’t have to write about the time we got drunk in San Francisco and pretended to have seizures on busy streets, or the time we went grocery shopping in full wet suits and flippers, or the time he tackled me at the top of a staircase and we both tumbled down and crashed through the sheetrock.

What I have to do is take what I learned and apply it. What I now know about recklessness, music, friendship, cancer, loss–these things will inform all that I do. I won’t just write our story, I’ll channel a story written by us, by me and Jeff and all of the people we have known.

Today, I’m working on a part of my book in which the main character must face the loss of his friend.

It is the first time, in my writing life, I’ve ever felt writer’s block. Yesterday, I sat down and watched the cursor blink for an hour before throwing my hands up and shutting down the computer. Perhaps the weight of the scenario stopped me cold.

Today, I entered the guest house at 6:15 AM determined to overcome whatever held me back.

I did.

And it was the hardest part.

Here’s an excerpt. The main character, Charlie, is very good at fixing things, but he is not very good at dealing with feelings and people.

“The doctors wanted to be sure I didn’t have any internal damage from the accident, so they ran me through a variety of machines. To my delight, I did not receive any serious internal injuries. However, one scan did detect a rather large mass in my right lung. Everyone is fairly upset. The young man, he survives a hideous wreck only to discover the real looming threat in his chest. It’s like a fucking soap opera, only without commercials and music.”

“What kind of mass?”

“Not the religious kind. Well, not really religious, although I have begun praying to it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Probably cancer. Slow growing if I’m lucky.”

“Cancer? How can you have cancer?”

“I asked the same thing. I’m still waiting for the answer. If you leave your address and self-addressed stamped envelope, I’ll send you a copy of it.”

I sat in a nearby chair. From that first call to finding Jeff alive to now, I had entertained so many possibilities, I couldn’t tell if what Jeff was saying to me made any real difference to me.

“Hey.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Quit fucking around.”

“What?”

“Fix me.”

I looked up and saw the vibration in his eyes, a tremble curling his lip; sincerity moved to his surface as I’d never seen before.

“I can’t.” I muttered.

He rolled his eyes and sighed, his momentary vulnerability boiling off and drifting away.