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3:09? I thought it be 3:14. But I didn't celebrate Pi day. I was too busy being wary of the Ides of March. Nothing happened, though. Good or bad.
And don't get me wrong or started, boobs are powerful motivators. Outta sight, outta mind doesn't even apply to them "milkgivers" as you put it. So I dunno if a man's first instinct is to cover them up. Not right away, anyway. The "hammerlocked" look on a man's face when confronted with female nudity isn't necessarily a referendum on his character, but just the opening she needs to deliver a karate chop to his Adam's apple.

Well, it's not really like Trump. I was just grasping at straws to slurp from under the intense heat of your criticism. Of course, sunlight is the best disinfectant. Which again reminds me of Trump and his attack on the media. You can't escape the sheer gravitational force of the man! Which reminds me of Bambini and look... Here I am talking in circles!

Well, don't let me slide too far. Like I said: I'm probably just trying to make excuses for myself. Trust me, I've been hearing the same "where's the plot/beef?" complaint for years, equivocating for years. My process is pretty willy-nilly. I don't outline, I simply write the next line. Although, like Catch-22, I'm sure there must be a plot lurking in ANTAGONY somewhere. Thin as air, but it's there. Just gotta find it, wrangle it, tie it up or down.

I remember you referring to Marilyn Monroe as a "medieval" actress, in the 20th century. Where does that put Shakespeare? In the Dark Ages? The Bronze Age? Does that make Abraham Lincoln a "Renaissance" man? For that matter, when was the Age of Reason and Enlightenment? Certainly not under Trump.

What up, Rhia? It scares me when you take my suggestions. I'm not sure if I'm comfortable being any kind of influential! Of course, I still think it's a decent idea. Lemme know when the shadowy new stuff is ready. When I find the time I'd like to maybe skim through the entire novel again, see how it all shakes out.

Cheers

John

I hear ya!

Well, isn't this fun?

No. It isn't. Not really.

See, I personally loathe this current culture of Facebooking and Pokeman Go-ing and Instagramming your Snapchatted Linked-In profile. Perhaps I'm just old, but I cherish my privacy. Especially when it comes to fiction. Because the things I write about are far removed from the things I believe in. For example, how to interact with people. I'm not nearly as sarcastic, racist, sexist, and narcissistic as John Hamler is. Because John Hamler is not my real name. Or persona.

Well, maybe I AM sarcastic. Narcissistic.... I dunno.

Of course, anonymity is part of the problem on the internet. A license to Twitter-troll people into subjugation and suicide. Yet even John Hamler likes to consider himself above such behavior.

I will confide that I am an uneducated 42 year old heterosexual male alcoholic/drug-abusing ex-convict from The Bronx who transplanted his ass to the leftist coast about twenty years ago. Because after hearing Nirvana and Pearl Jam I had dreams of becoming a rock star drummer. My dreams went unfulfilled, of course, but I still play the drums (I'm in two bands at the moment) and live in the Seattle suburbs with a fish named Wanda (actually, she's a girl named Wanda, we don't have any fish) and barely get by doing menial labor as a forklift operator. Wanda is the breadwinner, really. A successful sales rep for Revlon.

Anyway, I discovered a love/hate relationship with reading and writing whilst in prison. I got a hold of Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and was instantly smitten/smited by his profane/cynical verbosity. And then I read some Vonnegut and Elmore Leonard and... Well, ever since then I've become obsessed with history, pop culture, and literature. Reading and writing continues to save me from self-destruction, I think. Although I'm hardly well-versed in these things. Not like Rhiannon is, for instance.

Nevertheless, I don't like sharing too much about my personal life because I think doing so detracts from the fiction I'm  trying to spin. Am I really an elf, a wizard, a killer, a musician, an astronaut, or a black guy? And why should being a black guy preclude me from being those other things? See what I'm getting at?

No big whoop, though. I've got nothing against Tweeting and taking Selfies and whatnot. I just wonder if the zeitgeist has diminished our attention spans. Perhaps we all need to spend a short stint in (virtual?) prison. With nothing but four walls, a good book, and our imaginations.

Also, TNBW is supercool. So fuckit. Keep writing, y'all. I think I'll give SUIN another gander, right now. Because she's Irish. I'm not saying that I'm Irish myself, but... Yeah. I am.

Cheers/Slainte

John

I gave you a quickee just now, Rhia. That sounds dirty and sexy but it's really just sexy.

So, like I've said, I don't exactly know where the narrative is going as I write it but after stepping away from it for a few days a few ideas started hitting me. Usually when I'm in the shower, go figure. That means I gotta go back and readjust the narrative in the preceding chapters to make things fit. Thusly, the seemingly endless process of writing a novel in this unprofessional manner. I'd outline a story beforehand if I knew how. Or had the requisite focus to do such a thing. Alas, I keep farting along. One step forward, two steps back, another step to the side... Be patient with me, my friend!

Cheers

John

Ummmm.... Flattered as I am by your concerns, I just don't know how to please or appease y'all. Tis true I struggle with plotting. Mightily. My style, such as it is, be my shield. Perhaps I'll have an epiphany or perhaps I'm not cut out to be a commercially viable artist. In the meantime it's fun farting around with words and ideas. Even if purpose eludes me. Fun but unproductive... Sounds like I'm masturbating.

Rhiannon. You must be some sorta Literature historian. I suppose everything in art is reminiscent of the art that came before it (be it derivative homage or plain ol' plagiarism) but you've got an eagle eye for it. I wonder if you'd be interested in writing about that. Like a series of articles on how culture and politics are recycled, with specific examples in music and literature and whatnot. I dunno. Just listening to these convention speeches the past two weeks I'm struck by how there really is nothing new under the sun.

Anyway, I'm under the sun right now and it's fuckin hot and I've got no air conditioning. Not ideal conditions to be pondering things. I need to go jump in a lake or something.

Cheers

Yeah, well... I'm an alcoholic. Not proud of it. Nor am I ashamed of it. I just am. I think it comes with the territory of being a wannabe writer. Or that's what I tell myself, anyway. Joyce, Hemingway, Poe, Shakespeare, Henry Miller, even Stephen King... All raging drunkards. In vino veritas, indeed!

On a side note... Something that you've established, Rhiannon, that I'm starting to get keen on is: The idea of writing a plethora of short *very short* novels revolving around one protagonist. Telling different stories of course, from different characters points of view, but culminating in a "serial" type entertainment. I'm thinking of the show ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK for instance. And the way it's centered on the main character but shifts to exposit the back stories of all the peripheral actors. I dunno. I dunno how to market such a thing but, seeing as my attention span is weak and how much trouble I have focusing on plot... Perhaps short bursts of story --a series of ten one-hundred page/economy-priced books on the Barnes and Noble shelf, for instance-- might be the ticket in this rapidly disintegrating literary market. Again, I dunno. The whole point is... Why should people READ anymore these days when they can just binge-watch Netflix for half the price of a hardback?

Perhaps that's a totally separate discussion, though? In the end I'm happy to be part of this rare breed. We who still strain our eyes and minds in order to comprehend and enjoy Times Roman typeface.

Cheers

John

Congratulations, Janet. Now I gotta go see what I've been missing.

And a secondary congrats to Charles Bell. That joke was spot on and fab. If a bit cynical, of course.