My life, part I

Holy shit. Okay, somebody smack me with a bottle of champagne, it’s a celebration!

It’s 9:30 Friday night, I’m sitting in my flannel kitty PJs with a glass of wine, listening to the Killers. I’ve been to McMenamin’s, blown off Christine (sorry chickie!), blown off an hour of work on terrible web copy, and finished the final edit on the first real, honest to goodness, complete chapter of my b.o.o.k.!!!

How do I know it’s the first chapter? It just is. It’s done.

And now the hard part.

I was telling my roommate the other night I’m at the point where the writing gets really raw, really real. And I can’t seem to hit the keys. But I’m getting there.

It’s an interesting process, something I’ve never attempted before. But even if the fucking thing sits trapped for all electronic eternity on my hard drive, untouchable by publishers and readers alike, so be it. It’s managed to get my brain moving in a direction it never could before.

I kid you not, it’s like goddamned therapy!

Although, there are times when I wonder if perhaps it’s making me a wee bit too eager to blindly forge ahead.

Let me explain:

Last night I had a vision of myself standing on the corner of 48th and Baltimore, hand jammed as far as it could go into one of those big, blue government-issue mailboxes, alternating between whimpers for help and a blind determination to retrieve the piece of mail I’d just tossed, almost nonchalantly, into its big, steel belly.

Why this vision?

Because I was standing at the corner of 48th and Baltimore weighing the pros and cons of shoving my hand as far as it could go into the big, blue government-issue mailbox standing in front of me, taunting in its blueness. I’d just tossed a piece of mail, nonchalantly, into its big, steel belly.

And part of me wanted it back.

And part of me wanted it to go to its destination, come what may.

See, its intended recipient just happens to be an extremely integral part of Chapter One, and by writing I’ve managed to get to the point where I miss said character more than I miss the comfort in the ignorance of how much this said soul could, potentially, want me dead.

And so yesterday I sent something I’ve wanted to send for years. Hell, yesterday I reached out to the other half of my soul, and no matter what, damnit, it’s done.

As is the chapter.

Let’s fucking rejoice!

Because now, it’s on to Chapter Two…