I was lucky enough to find myself in my comfortable book-lined office. Over a glass of Petite Verdot, I was kind enough to respond to my questions.
Q: You seem to have been, ahem, missing from this blog for some time now. Two months, I believe. Where have you been?
A: I've adopted the Pentagon approach: Don't ask, don't tell.
Q: Been getting any writing done?
A: Define "writing." I've been doing a lot of writing...
Q: I meant fiction.
A: You would, wouldn't you? Hardly any. I've been working, but haven't written a word of my novel since August.
Q: I thought you were happy with how it was going. What happened?
A: Work, work, and then some more work. Even last week, when I went on what I laughingly call a vacation, I worked about 30 hours.
Q: You seem out of sorts.
A: You're wickedly insightful, you know that? You ought to consider doing this professionally. Of course I'm out of sorts. I haven't been writing, I've been working on this ridiculous deadline, and--
Q: I notice your foot is in some sort of big orthopedic boot.
A: Nothing gets past you, does it? Yes, I've been clomping around like Boris Karloff for more than two weeks now. I overstretched my Achilles tendon and it responded by pulling this exquisite little crescent moon of bone off the back of my heel.
Q: From running in Vibram Five Fingers, I suppose?
A: Nope. In fact, my injury is from yoga. In some positions, they tell you to "let your heels yearn for the floor." Shows what an unrequited yearning can do to a guy.
Q: So, you're not getting any work done on your novel right now, and you're not even managing to post on this blog...
A: ...and I'm in the middle of cutting down a tree in our front yard and haven't been able to finish it, and I'd torn off some sections of woodwork on the outside of the house that needed replacing and of course the clouds have been dumping water on us, and I can't really do much about fixing the hole in our house with my foot like this. And even though it's the weekend all these geniuses in London and Singapore and Hawaii are pestering me with e-mails asking complicated questions about arcane aspects of the work that I'm not finished with yet. It makes me think of a poem...
Q: Yeats, no doubt. "Things fall apart..."
A: No, not that one. I was thinking of Richard Brautigan's At the California Institute of Technology:
aaaaaI don’t care how God-damn smart
aaaaathese guys are: I’m bored.
aaaaaIt’s been raining like hell all day long
aaaaaand there’s nothing to do.
Q: That's odd. Because you just gave me the impression you had too much to do.
A: Well, the answer to that is a stanza from another poem:
aaaaaNow it's over
aaaaaand I haven't done anything that I want
aaaaaor I'm still alive
aaaaaand there's nothing I want to do.
Q: You're fooling no one. That's not really a poem, that's the chorus from the song Dead by They Might be Giants.
A: They also have a song called My Evil Twin. If you're so damned smart, why don't you write the next post?
Q: I just might.