Not much to report, really. Been writing a fair amount, reading a lot, buying lots of albums (six in the past week), saw my pops and uncle this past weekend. Ideas for the next book are already simmering in my brainpan; I hope they don't materialize too early on paper/on the screen and get in the way of finishing the complete first draft of Unheimlich by December fifth. I've chosen that date because it's when Thomas Pynchon's new novel, Against the Day, comes out. I thoroughly enjoy the idea of waking up, doing an hour's final work on my novel, and then walking to the bookstore to pick up 992 pages of Pynchonian gold.
I turn twenty-seven in less than three weeks. I took the Monday in question (the fourteenth of August) off so I can recover from any excesses the night before and go have a few quiet beers at Valhalla with anyone who wants to join me. I also plan on treating myself to dinner, because I cook 90% of my own chow and I'll be damned if I'm gonna stir-fry my own birthday meal.
Smith out.
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