18. A photo of you at work. 3/15/09 In the office at Morseland.
It’s not all pouring drinks, making friends, and living the glamorous life. Sometimes I have to do actual work.
No, I’m just kidding. Here I am, in the office at Morseland, where I do work on the website, and send out emails, and research new beverages, and try not to make Dave angry. Also, I drink coffee sometimes.
So, ok, the old novels have been posted. There’s a link over there on the sidebar on the right.
Proceed carefully.
Word count stands at 34,011. I’m falling behind the goal pace (36,000), but still ahead of the minimum pace (30,000). It’s always been important to me to get way ahead of this thing. The last couple years I’ve finished a few days early. Prior to that, it was mad writing sessions on the 30th. Nobody wants that.
Also, the prose style has taken a distinct turn. Where the beginning of this thing was structured prose, with complete sentences, the current state of affairs is that I’m just typing out these fragments with long strings of modifiers. To wit:
And came to, thrashing wildly, lashing out, eyes wide open but not seeing for a moment, spitting, trying to get rid of the cicadas in my mouth, but there were no cicadas in my mouth, just Stella, standing back, looking horrified, probably sorry she stopped to try to help me, but saying my name quietly, repeatedly.
It works, sometimes, especially when in the heat of a scene, but let’s try that differently:
I came to, thrashing wildly. I lashed out. My eyes were wide open but I wasn’t seeing anything. I spat, trying to get rid of the cicadas in my mouth, before realizing that there were no cicadas in my mouth. Stella stood above me, at a safe distance, looking horrified, looking sorry that she’d stopped to check on me. Â She was quietly repeating my name.
More words. Less…fun? Dunno. But I do know easier to write. Been having a hard time escaping scenes lately, not knowing how to get from one scene to the next. Been just leaving them for later. Maybe slightly-in-the-future Adam will know what to do. I sure hope so. I’m counting on that dude.
The road I was on twisted. Turned. Doubled back on itself. Became a cruel joke of a road designed years ago by city planners who had waited all this time for me to arrive and take it, my desperation providing them with unceasing joy and amusement.