Thanks to @unityonsocial for connecting us with the great @neildegrassetyson. What a lovely morning. Our son finally thinks I’m cool.

3800 words of a rabid dumpfest this morning, which means I’m seeing/feeling something warmly familiar from this vantage point down in the depths of the dark abyss of this frigid ocean where The Sea Monsters of Doubt and Self-Loathing swirl. Perhaps it’s a faint hint of light, a slight movement on what could be the surface. Perhaps an ending? Will I maybe perhaps possibly type “The End” in June? Will I actually meet my deadline? No, Boo, don’t get ahead of yourself.

Seriously, though, is that hope I feel? It would be a good time for it, because I was running out of air. For a while there, I was a free diver who’d gotten his foot caught in the reef. Much longer and I was about to start chewing on my ankle to escape.

But I didn’t have to because a mermaid with a tail shaped like a question mark set me free, and now I’m racing to the top, my fingers working like two fins kicking back and forth, desperation in my lungs, panic in my heart. I was typing so fast today I got the bends, so fast that I can’t imagine the atrociousness of the sentences. There will be lots of editing to be done in the decompression chamber. My delete key will be smoking by the end of it. And then maybe I should edit this mishmash jumble of literary spaghetti that hath spewed forth from these shaky, battle-hardened fingers.

The thrill is real today. Holy %$^, I LOVE this gig.

Won’t you be glad when I’m done with the first draft so I can stop clogging your feed with my musings?

#ambarelywriting #fiction #procrastination #ishouldhavegoneintopropertylaw #expatsinbologna #graffitiofbologna

Off to the races with @claire_lombardo. What lovely writing.

#amreading #fiction

Never have I strayed so far from my outline. Never have characters taken over a story like this before. And they don’t care about my outline or plot points or what my MIL is going to say when she reads it. They certainly don’t care that I have bills to pay. They’re just doing what they do, crashing into one another in spectacular and often ugly fashion.

In fact, one of my characters won’t even let me give her a midpoint beat, and we’re 75k words into the story. She barely even has an external goal yet, which is Storytelling 101. But I can’t give her one because she refuses.

I have no clue if this book is working. (And I’m not even joking.) It very well may mark the end of my career, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to force these hard-headed degenerates in my head to do my bidding. All I can do, in this case, is hang a press pass from my neck, hide in a nearby bunker, and write what I’m seeing take place.

Thanks for reading my latest entry in a new series called Why One Should Never Ever Ever Even Think About Writing a Book. And that’s part of a larger series called There Are Far Less Torturous and Invasive Ways Than Writing a Book to Explore Your Inner Damage.

#ambarelywriting #fiction #expatsinbologna #writingishard #Ishouldhavegonetoschooltobeanelectrician #graffitiofbologna

I don’t know what’s better than getting fifteen-hundred words in before 7am. It’s as if there might be hope, as if the tears might be worth something, as if an ending might be waiting, as if there will be a day when I send this to my editor, as if there might be a day when I see the cover for the first time, hold the book in my hand, crack the spine and read the first few sentences, and feel the pride of finding what it took to face the empty page so many mornings in a row, feel the pride of knowing that I kept my demons at bay long enough to sneak by them and get my characters to where they needed to go. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there in the world will read it and feel a tiny stir in their heart. Even if it’s just that one person, it will all be worth it.

God, it would have been soooooooo much easier to be a heart surgeon. (That one’s for you, Laura DeNino and Walter F DeNino.)

#ambarelywriting #fiction #expatsinbologna #writeordie #ishouldhavebeenaheartsurgeon #writingishard

This morning, during a breakthrough writing session, I had this random thought that, for the first time in fourteen books, I might shift from Times New Roman to another font, and I’m nearly ashamed to admit how much excitement it gave me, a warm breeze blowing my skirt up. Words are just words but they’re everything too, my way of grasping onto life. Despite the inevitable agony, telling stories is the only way I can make sense of things.

This book is F%^&ing KILLING me, and yet a day like today makes me think I might just get out of it alive. Of course, my angelic wife, who is rightfully annoyed with me right now because I’m awful to be around when I smash into the midpoint of a new book without any sense of how to get up or where to go from here, will remind me that I say the same thing about getting out alive with every single book.

But for real this time, if I do hit my deadline, or if I even get close, or if I even finish this book, come find me and buy me a drink and give me a hug. I’m gonna need it. Especially since I’m just going to do the same stupid thing over again, because there’s always another story that needs to be told, and I’m a monkey willing to be shocked again just to get one more nip of peanut butter.

More importantly, if you see my wife, give her an even bigger hug, because she’s always the brightest light in the darkness and not only puts up with me but gives me the courage to keep keepin’ on. All that, and she’s also suffering through the first two-hundred pages of my first draft about a crew of dysfunctional expats living in Bologna and lying to me and telling me it’s wonderful, needing only a few “minor” tweaks. I love you Mikella Walker.

Thanks for reading my procrastinatory ramblings.

#ambarelywriting #mywifeisthebest #fiction #bookclub #writeordie #ishouldhavebeenazookeeper #expatsinbologna

A doe on Peaks Island, Maine.

The only reason I’m afraid of anyone reading my work-in-progress is that I’m letting the freak flag fly higher than ever before. There are just no F&%!s to give. Zero, zilch. Writing as if I’m the only one who will ever read it, I’ve pulled back the double doors to my soul for an unfiltered view into my lunacy. I feel like a madman as my fingers mash the keys.

Also, I have a title. I can’t share it yet, but it’s nice to finally have one. For me, titles play as much of a role as the premise in providing cohesion to what I’m attempting to write. In a vague way, perhaps one that only rings true to me, the title captures the theme and premise and vibe all in one.

What I’m reminded most this morning is that you don’t always have to have some giant hook of an idea (ala Jurassic Park) to make a great novel. What’s most important is that the author immerse himself so deeply into the flesh of the characters that he sees through their eyes and smells through their nose and feels their love and pain and so desperately wants what they want. That’s how you make the reader care.

I love it when someone says about their favorite author: “I’d read the phone book if he/she wrote it.” That’s exactly what I mean.

From Peaks Island with love,

boo

#amtryingtowrite #fiction #bologna #expatsinitaly #amwriting #IShouldHaveBeenASeniorProductEngineerAtaSemiconductorPlant