Waves of deadline are rolling over me, and I am awash. There has been Sturm und Drang in excess, but the storm’s fury, which had reached white-noise proportions, has suddenly silenced as I sink beneath the surface, a sudden weighty peace pushing rhythmically to and fro and pulling me deeper. The ambient light condenses to a wavering circle, shrinking far above me, at the end of the trail of bubbles I leave to mark my passage….

Greenhouse: Three weeks left before we have to hang lights in the kitchen or lose flats of plants
Writing: Two weeks behind, this weekend I am due to have Faded complete in first draft
Work: Two days to complete creation of 25 forms while performing other duties
Bankruptcy: Nebulous deadline — before collections, as soon as possible

Bloop.

Bloop.

Bloop.

Hunter S. Thompson ate his gun yesterday.

I have a tremendous urge to leave work irresponsibly, travel by poorly-thought-out means to Aspen while drinking heavily and behaving notionally, and attend his funeral. I should probably try to speak at the service, and to score some drugs from the bereaved, and not leave until I have exhumed the body and viewed it, or offered solace to the surviving family and been arrested, or some such.

---

Whatever those pills were, they were starting to kick in hard, and were mixing badly with the rum. I could barely see through the seaweed-like heat wave tunnel, and the cemetery was rocking and shifting like a whirlpool in choppy seas. I knew I had to act fast, and decisively, or all was lost.

I wrestled with the priest, trying to gain control of the microphone. “No, really,” I insisted, “he would have wanted this. He owed me money — I was holding for him, and he left me dry. The microphone will help cover my bail.” The priest was stonger than he looked, and the rum had been taking its toll on my deteriorating system. Feeling that an unexpected ploy might well deliver the day, I released my grip on the microphone and the clergy’s shaking hands and instead wrested his bible from him, as well as his rosary, nearly emasculating him in the process.

My unexpected intimacy shocked him into immobility, and, grabbing the microphone, I leapt into the grave to stand on the casket. Waving the rosary triumphantly over my head, I said, “I just want everyone to know. Dr. Thompson was like a son to me. Or a father. He was important. And I know he would have wanted this - I am available, if his son can’t step up to the plate, to console Sandra Dawn, the good doctor’s ex. Juan should, by rights, do the honors, but he is well known to be squeamish, and his mom is starting to sag a bit around the edges, in any case. Who can blame him for not wanting to tip her?

“You all look like a healthy bunch; lend a hand pulling up the box, and I’ll just take a kidney and go. Gonzo owed me money, and I know he wouldn’t mind giving up an organ to see us even before he goes. While we’ve got him open, we can split his liver; there should be enough residual crap there to get us all fairly stoned, and we can sell dime bags to finance his memorial. Okay, now, pull!”

---

Perhaps not my best idea.

You get me. [jaw & eyes half open] I’ve been like this for days. I’ve checked my scalp, but no stealthy person seems to have opened my skull and scooped out my brains.

No writing, but for non-avoidance reasons, and I am satisfied. Much that was necessary was accomplished in place of, like getting the vehicle running so I can get to work. Okay, that’s viable, I can cope with an unmet goal.

Writing word limit: -
Working on Faded: -

I went to bed early, slept deeply, have been vitamin-fortifying myself and eating well. I assume my brain will come along, shortly, somewhat ruffled from tomcatting about, and I can become functional again.

I hope it happens today. I’ve a lot of work to do, and my brain would be a handy thing to have.

Last night I sat on the sofa, rereading Gracie (embarassingly enough) and snuggling and listening to music. Uffington Horse was in, and playing Fortune’s Daughter while I was reading about Gracie Allen’s poor understanding of gambling, and something clicked, the gate on my limbic system creaked open, and things began to leap from their cages and mixing in the aisles of my CNS, twisting and engendering in ways that would cause a raised eyebrow at a daisy-chain in a bus terminal, but seemed perfectly natural and right to me.

The song ended, and I asked Bridgette to, please, play that again.

“What’s wrong?”

My face felt like it was in an odd condition, but I didn’t want to leave the mixer in my hindbrain. “I think I’m writing a story.”

She clicked the appropriate button, and we listened while I sort-of-not-really thought, and I rose to gain my notebook and pen, returned and wrote at a frantic pace, nearly non-stop, for 810 words. Whoosh! I’ve about 2000 more to go, but the characters have mug shots and bios, the game is afoot, I know where my towel is, mix any metaphor you like. From here, I can sit and work my way through, and I left lots of notes saying, [insert poetical crap], that will be fun to do during revising.

Then, good, bad, or indifferent, I’ll send the beast out to earn a living and do its bit for the environment. Dunno if it’s pay copy, but it’s copy, which is sufficient reason to send it out.

But that’s not the good part.

The good part was that, as I had the idea, and took the notion to exercise it, I didn’t stop to suss the whole story out, didn’t analyse anything, didn’t stop for any purpose, good or bad. I just WROTE. And it felt GOOD, and I was giddy the whole night through, and had to be sedated to shut up enough to permit the redhead and the dogs to sleep, and woke up bubbly and singing this morning.

I fully expect to finish this story (working title: Faded) within ten days (two weekends) or less, and will send it out as quickly as I can correct whatever major flaws are present, say (pessimistically) two more weekends, although rewriting doesn’t count as writing for my goals.

Whee!

What I need to remember: When I have the idea, start writing, right then. No waiting. No thinking. My hindbrain is pretty smart, and will guide me through whatever literary shoals lay between me and fruition.

Sunday I wrote 650 words on my short story, knew what came next, but chose, instead, to work on various necessary things around the house. So. ++. I continue to find that what I think is going to happen isn’t necessarily cast in stone; the story keeps veering widely across the landscape, and improving in the process. I’m all right with that. I trust my underbrain to steer well.

At the end of this latest installment, I wrote “End Ch. 2″, plus some notes on what Chapter 1 must have in it.

Apparently my underbrain has determined that my short story needs a little more room than I intended to give it. I envisioned 7500 words.

Well. If I’m going to do this, I need to raise the word count per week, or I’ll be writing this story for a couple of years.