OK, this was a stranger-than-usual weekend. And that bar’s set kinda high.
Two things were going on. First, my day job: I was supposed to fly to Washington, D.C. with the president of Portland Community College and several Board and Cabinet members to visit members of Oregon’s congressional delegation. Hello, blizzard.
Second, my other job: I have finished the sequel to “Crashers.” It’s been with my agent for about a month now, and I’m hoping against hope that she likes it and that St. Martin’s Press likes it and that they ask for a sequel-sequel.
(Hubris, sir? Thank you, don’t mind if I do.)
Anyway, I write first drafts and the precursors to first drafts (character sketches, rough outlines) best when I’m held hostage. In airports. In airplanes. Jury duty. My proctologist’s waiting room. When I’ve got nothing else to do but write or go slowly insane.
So I took two steno pads and three sets of mechanical pencils and I was prepared to start on the sequel-sequel. I was going to hammer out a plot. By god, I was gonna get creative if I had to hurt someone.
And then the storm of the century slammed into the Eastern Seaboard and I got grounded and here I am in Portland with my steno pads and pencils; my hand raised, waiting for the teacher to call on me.
It’s weird to tell people, “I’m really looking forward to my layover in O’Hare! I’m gonna get so much writing done! Plus, you know, the pretzels….”
That’s OK. Early days. I’ve got lobbying to do at the Oregon Legislature. I’ve got PCC’s quarterly magazine to edit. I’ve got a girlfriend who makes you recalibrate your beautiful-ometer and who’s smarter than I am by a considerable distance. I’m OK.
But I’ve got a story to start.
And the clock’s ticking.