The Perfect Gift. The thing about people people is that they think the gesture is everything. “It’s the thought that counts.” The thing about analytical people, like me, is that we think the gesture is diddly squat. It’s the stuff that counts. It isn’t the timing–fuck birthdays–it’s the essence. Casual conversation will lead us on […]

Pistachios. Once a year or so we buy pistachios. There is no forseeable point to this story; you can skip it. Not some pistachios, but a bulk of pistachios. I will avoid chewing off my fingernails for a couple of day so I can pick them open. This year was a “wreath” of dyed pistachios,

Afternoon off. Used bookstore in town called “Author Author,” run by two women writers. They had Bridge of Birds and Eight Skilled Gentlemen by Barry Hughart. “Barry Hughart,” one of them said. “Any good? ‘A novel of an ancient China that never was.’” I was dumbfounded for about three or four seconds. What do you

The Writing. So a couple of good ideas came my way. The ones I’m using: A laptop fund jar — don’t write, a dollar out. Write, a dollar an hour. Write before bedtime. Get mucho help from spouse if bebe is still up. Result: progressing at the average rate of a page a day, as

Dream. So I’m wandering through this museum looking for someone. The harder I look, the harder it becomes to look, and the more I need to find this person, until I’m walking on a hanging bridge about a foot wide without handholds, and whoever it is I’m looking for (I don’t know) is going to

Saga of the Weight Bench. Once upon a time, there was a man who lost the bar to his weights. God knows where it went; probably it disappeared during his recent move across town. Possibly the bar was abducted by aliens, who unsuccessfully attempted to get ransom from the new residents of the apartment, who

Kiwi-birds and Hobbits. New Zealand, if you didn’t know, is where they filmed The Lord of the Rings. SCA, if you didn’t know, is the Society of Creative Anachronisms, a group of like-minded folks who try to recreate the more tasteful parts of the middle ages (not enough shit for accuracy). I have a friend

Brain Yoga. Not only is philosophy a comfort through the vissictitudes (did I spell that right?) of life, but it’s also…Brain Yoga!!! I should design a Discovery Store package. But no Plato. I hate that m@#@&&$%. Sure, one side of his mouth is all about platonic friendships, but you check ou the other side of

What if…? Short story ideas suck right now. Hey. Why does my brain flood with these things now, when I’m trying to write a freakin’ novel? Hm…that might make a decent short story, actually.

The Smoking Project. So every day Lee makes it through without smoking, he puts three bucks in a jar to go towards computer equipment. (I wonder if I could do that with writing? Well, sure. But–?) And every day I ask him: How did you do today? If he made it, I’ll say, “Thank you.”