I'm starting to use future titles from my commonplace book--the term for notebook in Karl Edward Wagner's honor, Sid maybe you'll take the weight after I'm in the wind--because at least they will be on the blog for others to get inspiration. "Still Crazy, After All These Fears." All yours. I'm being generous. I have started a purge, spending the last day decimating my bookshelves, losing one for every ten. Minor things along with the desecrated books went to the Salvation Army this morning. The books are in the crawlspace, my room is almost barren. This keyboard echoes like an electric typewriter, though the sound might just be that of my Frankenstein fingers. Today I had to post that Far Side cartoon, one of Gary Larson's best efforts. It sums up my every move when it comes to make anything work on a daily basis, my body keeps waking up every day, is what it is. Damned if I open my eyes, the same goes if they stay sewed shut. I always thought a noble death would be like Hartigan's, the Bruce Willis character in SIN CITY, instead, I wear pads on my back and neck that cause my skin to burn but I really don't give a fuck because I want to keep writing, whether this, my somewhat private notes to my somewhat private friends, or in the stories I need to write like "When It's Said And Done." I honestly think that once I finish CITY WITH NO SECOND CHANCES there will be no more me. I keep putting the novel off, but my mental state is so so so close to Frank St. Cyr's that his soul is bleeding inside me. I will write the story I mentioned above--about what would be my last trip home to Shelbyvbille, Kentucky--then continue in this barren room that is my body and my brain. Thanks for listening. Your chattel, Wayne
