There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
It is somewhat occluded by the next bit of work heading my way like a train with spikes and flamethrowers jutting from its cowcatcher.
The flames make a pleasant, toasted marshmallow kind of smell.
People frequently ask me: Drew, when do you sleep?
1993, the year before my son was born.
That is when I sleep.
But I feel good about myself. Well. Comparatively speaking, of course. I felt shitty about myself yesterday.
I feel good because I am finishing the revisions for my novel, Winger, which is coming out from Simon and Schuster in early 2014. I have been a bit sluggish since I moved my son out to Berkeley. I should have been finished by now, because this is probably among the easiest, most fun revisions I have ever had to do. And it is a funny book, too, which is kind of weird.
It is almost finished.
Hooray. I plan on sending it off this week.
It makes me feel like 1993 again.
There is a light. That will cook me and impale me.
I have also been finishing another entirely different novel. Entirely different, as in a manifesto of of the consumptive effects of not having slept in any year that is not called "1993."
Soon I will climb back inside the cave with Passenger.
Imagine what that's like for a writer -- going from a book like Winger, which is quite funny, directly into work on a book like Passenger.
It does kind of make the people with whom I interact on a daily basis take notice that "something's wrong with that guy."
I smell marshmallows.
