Chapter 4: The Pigs (cont.)
Gutbloom
151

Greetings from Manila, Gutbloom. Hailing originally from Texas, I had previous ambitions to respond with more manly banter about shotguns & varmints, but time & presidential elections have both passed, and so it’s only now. Just to catch up, the music in my head currently toggles between a Joe Cocker rendition of ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ & Fats Domino’s ‘Blue Monday.’ Sometimes sequentially, sometimes bleeding through one another like red wine stains on a tropical shirt.

Although I guess I gave attitude about NaNoWriMo (I also have an attitude toward fascism — which is cranking harder than the NaNoWriMo one right now) my response was precisely delayed by my own writing — about which, not a word! The sun will be rising soon! I’ll not measure word count with you either.

The root of my attitude is that, writing novels, my work is best if I write slowly. Writing fast occasionally generates a brilliant flash, of course…but then there’s the editing. I way over-write when I go fast & thus end up w/ a horrendous amount of book-length edits & cuts. I can see that your work (though I have no idea how you do it) doesn’t suffer that disability. At least, not in the first 4 chapters. Absolutely everything there is obviously essential dreck! Congratulations on that…I’m still with you!

The midstream change of pace I intended to write about here had to do with firewood vs. cheap oil & was supposed to have somehow hearkened back to Texas (though all my firewood art was done in California) something, something, something about digging post-holes (or digging telephone pole-holes by hand w/ a ten-foot shovel) — but I no longer remember what that was about…Oh yeah! Getting a hole to dig in. That was the deal…got to start with a hole to dig in, that’s the post-hole thing — that, with what I’ll call “The Work” (or TMRSET/SM&TF), you’ve done an intriguing job of digging the hole to dig in.

You raised another intriguing question before about Jimmy Buffett. Thanks to the blues/jazz ambitions of my Texas youth, I used to seriously fear that I would never escape from the pedal-steel guitar player (an instrument I’ve been more willing to embrace with age) and naturally, I had my doubts. So, just to be sure, I did some research (Wikipedia anyone?) & can say with a reasonable amount of certainty that I am not Jimmy Buffett.

Keep those chapters coming…you’ve got me skunked!

A single golf clap? Or a long standing ovation?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.