Blogless in Manhattan

Whoa. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since last I blogged! I suppose it comes down to the fact that I only have so much time to devote to writing each day, thanks to my job-job. But it turns out those weekly paychecks are a necessity – my cat’s tummy-tuck isn’t gonna pay for itself. That’s her, Dinah Blue, in the photo across the top of the page, discretely hiding her midriff bulge behind the laptop. (“You’re beautiful as you are!” I keep telling her, but whaddya gonna do?) Ugh, I blame America’s Next Top Model and Heidi Montag.

Anyway – sorry, blog, but lately I’ve been pouring my words into a novel-in-progress entitled FRANKLIN DELANO, PLEASE COME HOME! It’s about a Southern boy who happens to have dyslexia (before anyone really knew what that was). There’s a barkless dog, a headless doll, a big explosion… Well, I don’t want to reveal too much at this point since I’m only halfway through the first draft and things have a tendency to change. How about a few random excerpts? I’m just gonna close my eyes and point…

Page 19: 

Here’s the thing about a foolproof plan. It depends on how foolish the two fools are who’re trying to carry it out. And I’d say anyone purposely messing with an evil dog murderess with a kitchen full of poison is plenty foolish. 

Page 39:

“You smell like dog,” he tells me right off.

“Well, you’re no bed of roses.”

“Don’t sass me, boy.”

I’m thinking, “You don’t sass me!” But instead I just say, “Yessir, Uncle Bo.” Then I whisper “Vine” to myself. Bovine means cow. Ha! It’s my own private joke and it makes putting up with him a hair easier.

Page 72:

The sign reads ALICE’S INFECTIONS & ICERY CREAM or something like that. I know my brain’s jumbling the letters, but the ICE CREAM part sticks out plain as day.

Page 109:

It’s not that I give up hope when the lunatic’s station wagon pulls up beside me a half a mile or so later. Don’t mind too much that I’m plum tuckered out and my feet are encrusted with shards of gravel; and the fact that I’m out in public in nothing but a dead boy’s pajamas barely crosses my mind.



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