49

Kohi, Hai

Birthday Report: Yesterday I woke and ate breakfast, showered, and viewed both PRIDE AND PREJUDICE and 16 BLOCKS on cable with my wife, who’d taken the day off.

Lunch rolled lazily around.

We went shopping a bit, failing to find what we wanted but having a good time looking.

Later that afternoon, I showed up at the nutritionist's for weigh-in and to hand over food log. One pound down, I was told to exercise more. Nothing new there.

Off to home, where we ate a bite, thence to the Omaha Beach Party monthly Jay Lake Picnic. This is writers from Omaha who gather to dine with Mr. Lake, a writer in regularly from Portland on unwriterly business.

We had more fun this time because it was quieter, being less busy at Zio’s on Wednesday nights, evidently, than on Thursday nights, which are our usual. Being able to hear each other’s witticisms and ironic questions helped loads.

The OBP/JL Picnic was fun. There were several gut-buster laughs and mine was acclaimed the evening's most devastating remark, twice. Not the same remark.

"Happy Birthday To You", you being me, was sung in a bizarre slow tempo featuring brain-damaged harmonies. This only after "Bohemian Rhapsody" was assayed by Jay and Ma’at, much to the late Mr. Mercury’s cringe.

A good many decaf coffees apparently added up to something, because I was slightly wired until one in the morning. Further, ideas and inspirations and urges boiled in me, making me want to write novels the way I usually write short stories.

Some of what I accomplished, instead of just thinking about, include adjusting my Amazon wish list to account for recent acquisitions; reading Jay Lake and Ruth Nestvold discussing “Tropes” at IROSF; learning to use a digital recorder; adding a couple numbers, and the names they reach, to my cell phone’s memory; reading a chapter from one of the books I’ve got going; logging in a couple rejections; sending off some submissions electronically; finishing a letter, enveloping it, and addressing it; and having a good time on my birthday with my family and friends.

Oh, and I waived an offer to write someone else’s novel for them, which also meant waving off pay. Ah, well. We can’t all be ghosts, nor even hired hacks. I’m through with franchise fiction, which is for suckers and beginners who don’t know better yet.

Between that and skotching faint rumors of me being offered editorship of a magazine I wouldn’t want to deal with and don’t even bother submitting to, I’m relieved. I want to write my own stuff, thanks.

My only concern, really, is my health, and that’s a struggle for everyone, so no use bitching. 49 turns out to be okay, at least so far.

Check me tomorrow.

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