Welcome back, me.
The longterm coolification process of Simone continues. She now likes records. Her favorite is the new album by Beirut. Every night, we dance around the living room listening to “The Rip Tide.” She also likes track one from Fitz and the Tantrums.
We’re making process. Soon she’ll be shaving her head into a faux hawk and starting her own punk band.
Meanwhile, I’ve been bogged down with other things and have neglected my blog. (More on why in a minute.)
So, I’m back. Ta da.
Here’s an update. Simone’s favorite drink is “baby coffee” (hot chocolate) and she lets her babies sip from her tea set. She sits with her dolls by the heating vent and whispers sweet niceties. She’s almost to my waist. Shrek had returned as her favorite movie, despite momentary affection for Ratatouille. She talks non-stop, and says hilarious things. This afternoon she asked about Santa Claus. I told her that he only came in December. She told me there were two Santa Clauses, and she was talking about her Santa Claus, so please leave her alone.
The reason I’ve put off updating is twofold. One, I spent the Christmas break in the mercenary pursuit of filthy lucre; I’m writing a play. I’ve written two screenplays before—one is terrible, the other is short and netted me 20 bucks when it was made into a tiny little 20-minute film—and a handful of short skits. I’ve found it challenging, but much easier than writing a novel. I now consider Eugene O’Neill and Samuel Beckett lightweights. Chekov is overrated. Ibsen is passé. Brecht is best forgotten and Shaw was just okay. I don’t want to overstate, but I’m probably the best playwright since my great-great uncle Owen Davis passed away. (I’m kidding about everything but Owen Davis; he is my great-great uncle.) I’m collaborating with an up and comer playwright down in Birmingham; we’re almost through with a first draft.
I’m also finishing up a novel, digging into a second draft. I’ve been a busy beaver. I’ll keep the blog updated on both.
Two, I’ve stumbled into a strange perfectionism. I’ve written drafts of a dozen or so entries—a review of Thor, a travel piece on Iceland, the various ways to get dissed in middle school, a reader’s guide to Don DeLillo, the best films of the oughts—but I don’t want to put in the work to revise them. So, they sit in the digital limbo and wait, unread, like many of my unpublished novels. (It is interesting, and useful, to write something knowing that no one, ever, will read it. I seem to be making this a life pursuit.) As I’ve been spending my energies on the play and novel, these pieces will probably wait a long time.
Shed a tear for me, light a candle, then move on.
More to come, you beautiful babies. More to come.