Futile Horn

02.04.2005 - 9:59 pm (pauses to regard)

I finished the first chapter of my book this week, or at least it is as finished as it’s going to be until I write the rest of the chapters. When I got done I flipped out for about a day and a half, but when I calmed down I was feeling pretty good about what I put down.

Nevertheless, I’d like to get a few people to read it. Unfortunately I don’t really know anyone living around here. I know there is some kind of writing center not far from here, but as far as I was able to tell from the web, it’s mostly workshops and contests. I don’t want to join a twelve-week program just for a little feedback. I’m afraid there really might not be any options besides annoying the shit out of every literate entity I can find. Nothing about that appeals to me, so let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But unfortunately one thing I learned from songwriting is that if you want to get anybody to pay any attention to you at all, you are going to have be a little pushy.

I went to a birds in art exhibit today. I had a good time. My plan is to work not so much birds but birders into the novel I’m writing, and we’ll say this was a fun resource. It think everything they had was made in the last fifty years or so, which was perhaps unfortunate, but… I didn’t know if I was going to be able to use anything I found today, so I will try to go back on Sunday and take some notes. In addition to that I’ve Thoreau’s birding journal, or at least a book of entries from his journal about birds. I dunno, I find bird enthusiasts’ reactions to birds ridiculous but also complex, often subtle, and in many ways interesting. The reason I chose the subject was almost arbitrary, but I kind of like how it’s working out.

Oh yeah, and I’m well again. Did I mention I was sick?

Tomorrow it’ll be on to chapter 2. I’ve spent the last few days thinking about the shape I want it to take, but I guess mostly I’ve been resting. Although it’s a continuation, in some ways it feels like an entirely different project. Which basically means it’s a whole new set of anxieties. Seriously, how to books ever get written?

I think I am supposed to go out tonight. I went out for a couple drinks last night, so I think I’d really rather just stay home and read, but I guess some things can’t be avoided.

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn