Here’s the problem with writing a book: it’s hard.
That is all.
Just kidding – I mean about that being all. I’m not kidding about it being hard. I spent most of Sunday and Monday working on Fractured Memories and have gotten a huge chunk of the first draft finished, but let me tell you, I spent about half of each day bawling my eyes out. Reliving this stuff sucks. It’s been three months since my dad died and for the first two and a half, I really was pretty damn okay. Then Satch The World’s Greatest Cat died and I crumbled. And pretty much since then, I’ve been the giantest and hottest of messes. So adding writing about my dad into the mix is, like, quadruple hard. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m raw, because this ain’t my first dance with death, but I think I’m definitely medium rare.
I took a break while writing to get a little painting done, which resulted in finishing up the two little garlic paintings I already posted, but I also did a painting of my dad on his death bed to include in the book. ‘Cause, you know, nothing cheers you up while dealing with a death than painting a dead guy. It’s up in my studio drying, and I can’t wait until it’s dry enough to put in my storage room so I can stop looking at it. It’s not the most cheerful of images to walk in on when I go up to work on other stuff, but it may also be forcing me to confront those final mental images I have and, I’m hoping, exorcise them, or at least blunt them.
Here’s the painting: