Hippo Birdy.


I am forty-five years old today. I don’t really have any feelings about that, one way or another. E’s staying home so we can go to a movie and dinner this afternoon, other than that, I don’t really do a lot for my birthday or expect big gifts or anything. (We had dinner with her family last night, for my bday and Myriam’s – E’s mom – so I have many new shirts.)

Anyway, I’ve got hours here before she wakes up,so I can get some work done. That’s birthday present enough to me: how much more focused and driven I’ve been on the writing, lately. A graph generated from my productivity records for the last year would go flat Very Little, Very Little, Very Little…and then all of a sudden a twenty million percent jump.

That’s kinda literal, BTW not entirely me exaggerating or making up numbers for comic effect. Last month, I wrote a little over a thousand words, total.  This month, as of today, I’ve written 21, 079 words on three projects, most of them going into the novel I need to deliver, Them Bones. 

Still not hitting the kinds of numbers I want to, but…I dunno, I turned some kind of corner, here, faced the fearful wall of fire and had a laser penis battle with my daddy in the old dead tree. Or something. I’m writing every day and getting more and more done every day, every week, and…this is pretty sweet. For whatever set of reasons, it’s been very difficult for me, getting here.

And it’s amazing, how much less scary a novel looks when you’re twenty or thirty thousand words into it. And how much more doable.

I’ll probably write a chapter or two today (that don’t have any nasty deaths or other horror elements, the last two did) and see a movie that isn’t too terrible, at least, and talk to my college age kids who don’t make me worry to death and are a delight to talk to. And have a great meal and maybe even get laid.

I think my life is officially everything I ever wanted. So what am I saying, I feel all kinds of swell about my birthday.

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