Lifeline

It's not for money. There is none. And it's not for fame either. Who gives a shit? No one cares if I finish a novel. You don't give a shit. And neither does that person over there. I'll write for months. I'll make time to write when there is none, when I'm overwhelmed, disenchanted, and exhausted. Later, few people will experience my efforts. So it's not about accolades or awards. It's not about hitting the big time or my name in lights. I'll never be Kristin Stewart or Angelina Jolie. It's not like winning an Oscar or even an MTV Movie Award. If anyone cares I've won something it's another writer who's jealous. Writers are as bad as anyone else. We're worse. Imagine squeezing blood from a turnip. Imagine one turnip. I don't write because anyone will love me more or give a rip roaring shit or hand me a million dollars. I write because if I didn't, I'd die.

Sunday Boy

Joseph Gordon-Levitt's Closet

Last night, about two a.m., I dreamed I crawled into bed with Joseph Gordon-Levitt: JGL of the later twenties, of acting not Hollywood. The two of us in a big bed with lots of covers. He smiled often and hugged me around the shoulders and touched my hair.

What I wanted was to keep him long as possible. Stealth kisses, lots of them. Secret. On the mouth. Finally, I kissed his forehead.

You sense when a person will leave you.

Alone, I went through Joseph Gordon-Levitt's closet touching shirts and then sniffing each one for the prize that smelled most like him. Skin, shampoo, sweat, reminiscence. I settled on a shirt with short sleeves, stripes, and a collar. But then I wasn't sure how to smuggle it out of the house without detection. Why do you have Joseph Gordon-Levitt's shirt stuffed down your pants?

+

Last time I was inside the house that belonged to my son's father I went through his closet and then decided on two shirts off the floor because they were rank with his smell.

I didn't wash them for over a year, not until the smell of him had begun to fade over time. Erosion.

I also took a pair of his jeans and a baseball cap.

For at least year, my son wore that cap, and anytime he did it caught me off guard. Like coming around a corner and catching wind of someone who was dead.

Sunday Boy (Jimi Hendrix Edition)

One of my favorite stories is the one about Jim Morrison crawling on his hands and knees across a bar-room floor to tell Jimi Hendrix he wanted to suck his dick.

Jimi Hendrix.

Anytime I see this video, I get turned on, especially when he plays the guitar with his teeth; it's as if he's giving the guitar face. I get a full-blown erection. Jesus. Jimi Hendrix.

Serenade

One brought me teddy bears, once a bear so big it filled the corner of my bedroom. One brought me jewelry. One sat stage side while I disrobed to a song called "Blue" by Latour and wrote me poetry on napkins. One laid hundred-dollar-bills all around my stage. Another said, "I'll give you ten thousand dollars to fuck me." One spit when he talked. One said, "I'll take you to Paris." Another wanted to rent me a penthouse downtown if I wore a beeper. A lot of them owned businesses. One had the drugs, another had concert tickets. A couple of them suggested I give up college; it wouldn't work out. Another said he hoped I had a big dog, although he wasn't the one who followed me home one night and then stood outside my apartment door yelling, "I know you're in there, and I know your name isn't Taylor." Always a few of them called me a slut.

Jack came in every Wednesday and bought me lunch. I'd have a salad and chardonnay. He'd have a sandwich and iced tea. Jack was in his sixties. Two years before, his wife had suffered a stroke and become bedridden. She couldn't talk. His hand was warm when I held it across the table. Jack brought me books and wanted to hear what I thought of each one after I'd read it. Sometimes, when I disrobed for him, Jack would lift his hand and brush the back of my calf with his fingers. He saw his wife the way she was before the stroke. He missed her, a lot.

How to Read A Book (Advice from Larry Winget)

If at all possible, buy the book . . .

If the book is yours, mark it up . . .

Tell everyone what a great book you are reading . . .

Do not loan anyone your books . . .

Buy lots of books . . .

Read several books at the same time . . .

Do not hesitate to stop when you find yourself in the midst of a bad book . . .

And also . . .

Want to have some fun? Ask people you know to name the last five books they have read. If they can name one it will be amazing. While this may be cruel, it will be great fun for you. Then ask them what book they are currently reading. I bet you nine out of ten are not reading anything. By the way, this is a clue for you: Do not hang around people who do not read.


*All this courtesy of Shut Up, Stop Whining, & Get a Life by Larry Winget

Twilitized

You can blame it on Showtime, if you want, but thing is, it's my fault I've been Twilitized and I've no one to blame but myself, per usual (personal responsibility, after all) so there it is.

Twilitized.

I still don't care for the book. I never finished it. Some may say it's because I'm jealous. Look, I regret I never wrote a story that caught on like wildfire but still . . . Stephen King and I don't care for the way the books are written. Too heavy on the adverbs and adjectives, for one thing.

But the story.

The story is good. In fact, as a love story, it's stellar. I'm Twilitized. So fuck me. Fine. Okay. You got to believe me: visually the movie is stunning. I could stare at it all day. Also, the love story is stellar. (Meanwhile, my kiddo continues his attempts to snap me out of it. Mom? MOM? Are you watching Twilight again? Mom? No!)

Friends, neighbors, writing peers, and fellow junkies I've watched Twilight on Showtime three times since Saturday, well in bits and pieces anyway, sometimes as I fall asleep, and this morning I woke with a realization: I want to write a love story. I'm writing one right now. My novel is a love story. Who knew? I mean, who knew? Amen.

Sam + Naked = Love

Thank you, Sommer Marsden, for the link. Girl knows the way to my heart.

Home Sweet Home Soon

Sunday Boy (Or, Did You Mean to Start a Revolution? Edition)

Dream Analysis

Paris Hilton approaches me in a library and asks if I'll get high with her.

Meanwhile, Kiddo reports waking from a dream of donuts.

Pinnacle

Tonight is Saturday, January 23.

For whatever reason, The Doobie Brothers are on my I-Tunes right now: "It Keeps You Runnin."

Jesus, perfect song. I didn't plan it. I make plans for the novel as I go along. Running. Sort of like that. I can't explain the noveling experience so far except to say it's all consuming and exciting, and yeah, it's difficult too and a little bit scary, yet I've decided I'm not scared. I'm determined: what it is, I'm turned on by my own story.

My novel, "Big, Bad Wolf" began as a wet dream, serious. To quote Jamie Keene, novel on. All we need folks, is wet dreams and confidence.

Tonight is Saturday, January 23rd, and I record this night in personal history because I reached a pinnacle. If it were National Novel Writing Month, I would have won. Instead, I won anyway, because it's not National Novel Writing Month and yet I'm still noveling.

I'm noveling. I'm writing a novel. I'm going to finish a novel.

Tonight I hit 50,252 words.

Sure, anything worth having is hard.

I love you.

Love is biological, natural, tricky, chemical, cerebral. Love is sweet; it's hard.