I’ve decided I want Maira Kalman to illustrate my book.  There.  So can you call her for me?  I can’t call her right now because I’m very busy at the beach finishing it.  Call her and tell her what my book is about:  suburban angst, the cat throwing up, the futile pursuit of happiness … you know, the clumsy yet beautiful thing we call ‘marriage’, that sort of thing.

I’ll need drawings of crane flies, they should be misshapen and misunderstood.  They should provoke fear but up close, also empathy.  There should be one nice shot of Ellen banging her piano, of Howard leaning against a wall like Bogart – I’d like him tired, long-suffering, lost.  There is the opening scene, Fellini night; I’ll need a dejected rendering of that. 

And, of course, Claire.  Maybe stepping out into the street around the giant truck or on the phone in the dark in Kandahar, her arms directing her words.  Oh, and Dr. Head in her powder blue suit and platinum hair and bright-colored lips; she’ll be fun, I think, to draw.  Oh my goodness, the possibilities.  I must take an art class right now, there’s too much for Maira to do all alone.  How about if we all draw one page?  I’ll give you the scenes for depiction, you can choose.  First let me eat my yogurt, it’s getting warm.

M-III has yet to Friend me like he promised.

I upped my usual dose of coffee this morning and am now onto Coke.  (Diet.  You know I don’t like sweet.)

My laptop is hot, it flashed a snide little note about temperature and then shut itself down, I’m not pleased.  I could work on A.’s laptop, I suppose.  I mean I am, already, I’m doing it now, but there are inconveniences. 

I could write in my head from the pool but there are leaves in the pool and remember?  I’m tired.  I don’t have what it takes to get them out.  Moxie, it would take.  Some sort of zest for life that this morning I’m missing. 

There are foul-smelling things in the refrigerator, I put a note up for the other employees.

There are foul-smelling things in the litter box, and also there are bees.  Everywhere.  I’m not sure how they relate to the smells.

I’d like gardenia-scented candles for Christmas if you don’t mind.  And a cooler laptop.  And a tall dark man (hint, “A.”) to sweep the leaves from the pool.

Some of my new boy Friends on Facebook said nice things to me.  So, um, thanks Chris!  And tell Colleen to be my friend, too!  I’ve lifted my “No Girls’ ban, it’s open enrollment now. 

M. sent the greatest email yesterday and I’m going to print it.  Without his permission, of course, so please if you read it do not say anything about it to M.  There were two parts, I might not print them both, but here’s the first:

I thought of you yesterday when I read John Updike’s New Yorker (cover: McCain playing Monopoly) profile of William Maxwell.  Maxwell entirely rewrote some of his novels several times, often taking years to get them ready.  I realize, as I write this, that you have already spent several years on TGW/TFPoH.  Anyway, it made me think of what you’re going through.

Something else, definitely (I hope) NOT what you’re going through, is the description of Maxwell’s suicide attempt when he was 19.  What struck me was that he attributed his attempt to reading too much Walter de la Mare, which gave him a poetic idea of “life after death.”  (page 72).   

Wait …

When time permits, I usually read The New Yorker literally cover-to-cover … Walter de la Mare … didn’t I read something else about him 15 minutes ago?  Sure enough, in Alice Munro’s short story (p. 67!), the narrator comes across (and reprints verbatim) a poem by Walter de la Mare.  About death.

WTF??

Is this the annual Walter de la Mare issue of The New Yorker?  Is this a coincidence?  There are no coincidences.

Wow.  First, thank you M.  Now I’m obsessed with Walter de la Mare!  And M. is right, everyone.  There are no coincidences.  One or more of Walter’s four children has become short on cash and launched a surreptitious campaign to make us want to immediately buy all his books.  Look closely at the glass of whiskey in your magazine ad.  You’ll see a very obvious sillouette of Walter de la Mare carved into the ice. 

Second, I barely work on TGW at all, I merely talk about it.  So technically I’ve invested 10 minutes so far on this book and am not yet suicidal.  Even though, yes, it’s been over the course of 50 years. 

Third, there was a funny cartoon (I only read the cartoons) by Roz Chast in the McCain Monopoly issue about a married couple’s Silent Fight.  Did you see it M.?  Wasn’t it funny?

I’m still tired so I’m going to do jumping jacks.  The second part of M.’s email is about women and if my energy surges, I’ll post it.  

The guys out back are doing something that’s shaking the house.  I hope it doesn’t make A.’s new wall fall down.  It’s already rattled Scruffy, and by proximity, me.  It’s annoying us. 

H. and I talked about our Kindles yesterday and guess what?  We both order free “Sample” chapters but don’t buy the books.  (Good God, there it is again, they’re shaking the whole block!) 

I keep wondering when Amazon will catch onto me and take my Sampling privileges away, they’re probably mad.  I did buy The Story of a Marriage, though, and it was excellent.  I gasped, more than once, caught completely off-guard, and one time, even, I cried.  Just a little, though; no one saw.  And it probably doesn’t count because like I told Lisa Austin, I cry sometimes at stoplights.  I cry when Ellen does the little dance part of her show, I cry when the house shakes and A.’s wall falls down.  I.e., sometimes my cries aren’t conventional.

L.C. has writing energy and I’m trying to take it.  I want it, I want to get needles and a syringe and take it all out of him and put it into me.  Ew, gross.  Still, I’m desperate, have you been listening to me at all?  I’m desperate!   

It’s the venue, maybe, I need a change of it.  A.’s talked of putting his next wall in the garage, and on one side will be a room and if he buys a ping pong table I think I could play ping pong and figure out exactly how to finish my book.  Actually, I need to middle my book, the finish is done.  It’s got bang-pow holy-COW finish.  You’ll laugh and cry and name puppies after me, the finish is fine.  It’s the damn middle that’s lost.  Going round and round in dull circles, repeating itself, telling stories that go up a hill.

I need to middle it.  I need to middle my stupid book.  I watched Mad Men last night and they smoked 5 packs an hour and I read somewhere that they’re fake cigarettes with fake smoke.  So here’s the deal:  I want fake cigarettes and a ping pong table and the ghost of Bella Abzug.  I want a perfect grilled cheese sandwich with a grapefruit Izze and I want the doorbell to ring and have a package on the step.  I also want it to rain, but not until Sunday.  Then, after all that, I’m almost confident I can finish my middle. 

I am very sleepy today, did I tell you that? 

[Oh, and this is for a bunch of you, too many to name.  Click on it, though, right here.  But just you, the ones I'm talking about.] 

I need one of you to edit my book.  I’m stuck cold on my book.  I like all the parts but some of them must go and also there are gaps that I don’t have the slightest idea how to fix.  My book and I should be in therapy. 

Oh, I’m exaggerating, just for attention; it’s barely anything.  But I need one of you to read and edit it and get me back on the road, again, to fixing it up.  To wrapping it up, actually.  I want to be through with it, I want to send it out.  I want to chew bubble gum while poring through glossy magazines deciding which glittery, glam, hopped-up movie star will play whom in the movie of my book.  I want to be done, and doing that, not this, and so I need you to read it and edit it and be happy with my leftover backyard blueberries as your payment.  I’ll also try to think of a good joke. 

A. has a good joke, that one about the doctor, and this guy’s doing this thing and the doctor makes him stop because he’s trying to examine him. 

I’ll tell you that one, plus blueberries, if you edit my book.

You’ll have to put thought into it, you’ll have to have revelations.  You’ll have to praise it wildly and still come up with new ways to add brilliance.

Ugh.

Some days work sucks.

Send your love for my book here.

Okay my little bears.  Here’s the thing.  Sunday you must all buy the New York Times at Starbuck’s.  (Unless you live in New York, then your options, of course, expand).  You must discard all but the section called “Sunday Styles.”  You must find a happy comfy place to go and then read it from cover to cover.  Well, skip the wedding announcements, or just read three. The point is, I will be the whole deal around page 5.

It’s important that you buy it early and get in with me good because the window where you have any access to me at all is now quite short.  I can’t be bothered after Sunday, I’ve hired handlers.   

“Modern Love” column.  Sunday Styles section.  August 10th. 

There’s a line with the word “complacency” that I want you to note.  We’ve been arguing it, the Times and I … they don’t like my line, and I do.  “We basked in complacency,” is what I said.  They want to say this:  “We basked in our complacency about our marriage.”  Cross your fingers.  (Hey, psst.  I love you, Times, if you’re reading.  Print whatever you want.  Marry me!)

Anyway.  You can call, of course, but I’ll be very busy taking other calls. The best course is to send gifts.  I’d like a go-cart.

Oh, also.  The real name of A. will be revealed.  The Times will not print initials.   

Happy Friday. 

Seriously, I would.  I’d rather eat beets (full disclosure:  I happen to like beets quite a bit) than do my job today.  In fact, I’m eating beets right now, while trying to do my job but doing it poorly. 

My job is hard today.  I’m having what you people in office jobs call a “bad day at work” or “at the office”.  Or whatever it is you say.  If I had an office job, I’d have made plans by now, to have martinis with Janet and Mark at 5-sharp.  Funny.  When I worked with Janet and Mark I don’t remember having martinis.  Aside from all-exclusive company paid fancy business trips.  We had bad days, though, so we must have.  Bad office days are when you sit through too many meetings and no one gets how smart you are, and your boss makes you work, plus asks for stuff to prove you worked.  Like flowcharts.  Or reports, or an update, or graph.  That’s how I remember them anyway.

Bad writing days are when you can’t write.  When the idea of it makes you light-headed, makes you gasp, makes you feel weak.  Some call this “writer’s block,” I think I told you I loathe that term.  Blocks are for pussies and preschool kids, I’m just having a “bad day.”  At work.  Big deal, a bad day at work. 

H. has them, it’s when half her staff calls in pregnant or sick or caring for sick mothers.  Right H.?  Or their hand hurts or no one can find them and she has to scramble all day to keep things going.  Which she does.  But it’s annoying when she’d rather be doing 500 other things. 

A. has them, too.  It’s when employees call from jail.  Or pass out in the bathroom.  Or don’t come in, or smell bad, or call his phone over and over without leaving a message.  Or when potential clients — you know who you are, Mr. so-and-so from blank! — do not return calls and pretend they’re busy and have ridiculous reasons for not choosing you when you know they’re just inept and lazy. 

So here’s mine.  My bad day is when I have a big fat book to fix.  Some of it’s good, but it’s hard to pick up a big fat book, one that’s not quite done … and read it and re-read it and cut and fix, and fix it some more.  It’s hard and I don’t want to do it and so the day’s floating by and I’ve done very little.  Well more than little, but less than lots.

This has nothing to do with that, but when I leave Scruffy’s food outside during the day, the ants attack with abandon.  When it’s out at night, a slug comes.  I’d like to think the same one, I’d like to name it.  Every night, under the glow of the moon, I peer into Scruffy’s dish and see the same slug, thick and viscous and latched onto an inside side wall of his dish.  No trace of it in the morning. 

That’s all.  I have to work, people, even if it’s mediocre work, I still must do it. 

My editor from here thinks I have comma issues.  I happen to like commas, I think perhaps it’s he with comma issues, I think the rest of the world doesn’t appreciate them enough.  (Sorry, D., if you’re reading, I’m exaggerating for effect.  I think your issues are perfect, I’m in comma rehab, thanks, again, for referral.) 

This.  Is what I’m equipped with.  To make a book. 

(Note to publishers:  Don’t let me fool you, it’s genius!  The self-deprecation is all part of my brilliant marketing plan!  Buy me, buy me!)

So.  What’s in your wallet? 

Okay, so Duh — go to this tonight.  Back Fence PDX.  Some very funny people will tell you outrageous stories about summer.  They’re actors and writers and former Scientologists, so it’s guaranteed to be great.  There will also be a swimsuit contest and RSG is in that, and if you’re in Mac can you stop on my street and give me a ride?  Thanks.

I’m working in the front room this week, which means the wireless signal is even weaker than in the small house.  This, of course, makes me think of Liz — hey Liz! — because she’s very sympathetic about my wireless connection and maybe she’ll buy me a booster today and leave it on the porch.  If she does, though, I’ll see her doing it because my front door’s mostly a window and the other windows don’t have stuff to cover them, I’m exposed.  But that means you are too when you drop things off on my porch.

The other thing about working in the front is I see the deer walk by.  C. says the deer are dirty.  “Filthy” was the word she used but I disagree.  I see them walking up from the creek, I think they bathe.  So there’s that and now the birds are flying in. 

The birds come in the back door to eat Scruffy’s food and yesterday one hopped all the way up here, to the front, and flew around.  It scared me because I watch Hitchcock and because birds fly crazy when you put them in small rooms, but I opened all the doors and it left and now I miss it. 

I feel like you need a link here to something smart.  Brain food, something to perk up your tired heads.  I can’t find one, though, my flitty connection is making me mad.  Wait, I know — Melissa Lion today, she wants you to like yourself naked and she has a picture.  Which reminds me that in Ashland a woman is marching topless in the 4th of July parade.  Because you can be topless in Ashland, it’s totally legal.  Ashland rocks, right? 

(More later.)

I’ve had a huge burst of creativity today, inspiration out my ears and I just realized why — it’s my font!  Not this one here, but the one in Word.  For some reason when I opened New Document today (I’m rewriting a chapter, I wanted a clean place to work) the font was Calibri 11.  Do you know it?  I assumed I was writing Times New Roman, I thought TNR was the default, but no, it’s not, or at least it wasn’t today.  I was working and working and writing and reading it back and it looked so pretty, I liked all the words. It’s the Calibri!

My working manuscript, however, is in Garamond, I’ve always considered Garamond my lucky font.  In fact what I do when I’m writing is I save Garamond for when I need it.  I start in Times New Roman and save Garamond for when I’m stuck; it’s my Mariano Rivera, it’s my relief font.  So a couple of months ago I made the whole Good Wife Garamond but what luck – now this, now Calibri. 

You’ve no idea what it means. 

I wrote Blanche Dubois because I just referenced her in a scene and am thinking of her today and it’s always fun, isn’t it, to say her name.  Say it.  “Blanche Doo-bwah.”  Be dramatic about it, in honor of her. 

That’s all I have.  Really.

M-squared (who wants to be called M-III but won’t get to be because I don’t change a name once I’ve set it.  Unless it’s Herb.  Unless you’d rather be called Herb, M-squared, I like Herb) referred to a post yesterday about A. cooking, or someone cooking, or me cooking A. I can’t remember for sure.  The point is I can’t find it.  I thought he said it was here but it’s not.  In looking, though, I’ve discovered something you’ve probably known for years:  I can’t stop talking about ants!  It’s a disease.  It really is!  YOU try to balance entomophobia with your writing material and see how you do.  See if you keep the ants out.

By the way, I want you to donate a dollar toward my disease next time you’re at Safeway.  They’ll try to steer you toward lupus or cancer, but please tell them you want your money in Entomophobia.  Insist on it.  Threaten to shop at Albertson’s.  Tell them you are tired of reading about ants. 

This has nothing at all to do with ants but I think you’ll like it.  Particularly you, M., though I’m sure you’ve already seen it.  Where is this, where’s Garrison?  The place itself, Guinans, sounds like a place Andy and I stopped at on the way to a client, some weird client we had upstate.  It was an hour train and we got off at one point and bought tall cans of beer like high school kids.  It wasn’t the usual train, like to Connecticut or wherever else all the trains go — there were leafy trees along the way and little else.  And I think, for the record, we bought the beers on the way back, after we had finished acting professional. 

It reminds me of summer, which at 48 degrees here in Mac looks like we won’t get, but still I reached back 24 years and wrote this. 

Ta-ta.