I see from the card in my wallet that it's almost time for my next haircut. Since I like my hair short, I visit Missy, my, er, stylist, once every five weeks or so. Now, Missy is aware—and has been aware since I first visited her shortly after Brooke and I moved to St. Louis—that I'm writing a novel, or as I like to say, "writing" a "novel." At any rate, each appointment, without fail, she asks me how the book is doing. Or, rather, since roughly August of last year, why the book isn't finished yet. Now, she's not the only person to inquire about this—just ask Brooke—but she's the only one that a) asks on a predictable basis and b)I can't pacify with some pretentious writerly comment like "You can't rush art" (or "art") or "It will be done when it tells me it's done" or "Mommmm...Leave me alooooone." So, for the past few months I've been forced to invent a new reason each month why the book isn't done. To wit, a few of the recent excuses:
- head cold
- received Xbox for Christmas
- visited my family in Baltimore for Christmas
- visited Brooke's family in St. Louis for Thanksgiving
- general post-election malaise
- too much whiskey (see above)
- general post-World Series malaise. (St. Louis only, I know)
- cats did something cute.
Frankly, friends, I'm tired. I hereby solicit suggestions for new excuses.