In my iPhone, I’ve got a whole list of things to do. Oh, I checked off a few items. The thing is, I’m sort of a morning person. It seems as if, every day, I get a lot done before noon, then the day just starts accelerating. It seems like it takes eight hours to get to noon, and then 30 minutes and it’s 3:30. This morning I spent a good bit of the morning visiting my mother, and when I got back home, the clock was already spinning at breakneck speed.
It’s turned into something of a music day. I haven’t written any songs, but I’ve just played a lot of them. I’m sort of trying to get myself up to speed because I’m going on the road at the end of next week. Strictly, they’re book signings, but I plan to take my guitar along and perform a few songs from The Audacity of Dope. The song lyrics in the book provide illumination into what makes Riley Mansfield, the main character, tick.
This is a warm-up itself. As soon as I get this daily blog done, I’m going to dive into the 10th chapter of Crazy by Natural Causes, which will be my third novel. My second. The Intangibles, will be out sometime this year. If I get another chapter written today or tonight, the day will have been a success.
I’ve got to get some business cards printed. I’ve got to get some press kits put together for next week. (I’ll be at Binding Time, Martinsville, Va., on March 7, 3-5 p.m., and at Barnhill’s in Winston-Salem, N.C., on March 8, 6-7:30 p.m.) I’ve, yes, still got to get my taxes done. Today I ordered a reader for my iPhone so that folks can buy my books and T-shirts by credit card. A man gets so tied up in busy work that he can’t get any creative work done.
Minor-league baseball has been on TV. I’m vaguely aware of the St. Louis Cardinals hammering unmercifully the New York Mets, but, lo and behold, I just looked up and darned if the San Francisco Giants and the Los Angeles Angels (I hasten to add “of Anaheim”) aren’t playing now.
Yesterday I ran some errands, paid some bills (whew, did I) and read a good bit of The Thorn Birds, by Colleen McCullough, which Mom recommended a good time ago and picked up for me at the local hospice’s secondhand store. I’m enjoying it. I’ve always wanted to visit Australia, which is what Mom noted when she recommended the book. I’ve never even seen the miniseries. I can see that happening once I get through reading it.
It’s good “writing reading.” Reading some authors helps me write. Larry McMurtry is probably my top seed. I love John Steinbeck, but he intimidates me a tad. If I dive into The Grapes of Wrath, I think, well, jeez, he gets more into a paragraph than I get into a page. So profound is my love for Steinbeck that it digs at my self-confidence. I steer clear of Steinbeck when I’m engrossed in a novel of my own. I’m not worthy. If I read McMurtry, I think, well, I’m not worthy, but I’m not bad.
(While on the subject, do yourself a favor and read McMurtry’s Leaving Cheyenne. A movie called “Loving Molly” was made of it, but it’s a mess.)