The characters working at the nearest Cook County Jewel are more clearly defined to the eye — that is, when compared to the characters working at the nearest Lake County Jewel. There's something more cramped and haggard about that nearest Cook County Jewel, something less ordered and more spontaneous in the arrangement of things and people. In Lake County, while the selection is more diverse and abundant, the character is more homogenized and punctilious; and while the produce is fresher, the spirit is weaker. At the Cook County Jewel, I feel more at-home or more at-ease. In the parking lot, my car blends-in better. But somehow I find myself more frequently lodged between the Escalades and the Navigators parked before that Lake County Jewel; where I find myself wearing my heavy suede coat — the one you can't sneeze on without ruining its velvety nap. It keeps me warm, it doesn't weigh down my shoulders, it looks and feels expensive, it matches my hair and it matches my eye...
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You wanna know just how conservative this liberal's become? Last night he watched Top Gun — not because he hasn't seen it too many times already, but because (believe it or not) it's legitimate research. While he's watching, it hits him: Val Kilmer's character, "Iceman," he's not the asshole. It's Maverick who's the asshole. And, all these years before, this so-called "liberal," he was convinced that "Iceman" was the one. In fact, all these years before last night, he's held a grudge against Val Kilmer personally because of the outstanding job he did in that movie — the outstanding job, of being an apparent, but not a legitimate, asshole. Because, when you're a kid, you wanna be Maverick. You wanna be an asshole.
My second novel, like the first, is an abomination of the English language—which explains why God created the Revision. Really, to call both of these lengthy slatherings of ink "novelistic" must be pushing the definition to its unnatural extreme. As with all of my drafts of anything, I can never settle upon a title. So, I always keep a running list. Below, then, is that list of working titles for my second effort at a novel... Clay Thumb on the World Unique Reek The Clatters The Sniggering Clatters Clay and the Sniggering Clatters: A Ridiculous Fable Pined For An Infectious Miasma of Lunacy The Broadloom The Humph Infernal Obliquity Tenacious Nougat Dangling from the Goop The Briefest of Gusts The Cusp of Fall Points of Tolerance Shag Bark Lane Mr. & Mrs. Clatter of 7 Shag Bark Lane Paint Yourself Ridiculous Crossing Thresholds Gravity's Tug A Pale Perplexion The Constant Swerve For the duration of my effort, I left the first line on the cover of the composition book ...
The one who writes pathetically, thinks pathetically, lives pathetically. * *Note Of Clarification: The above sentence originated as the first in today's off-line, pen-and-paper journal entry. It was an assessment of the last pen-and-paper journal entry, written a fortnight ago. The sentence above, I would hazard to guess, is certainly not applicable to you.
At some point—if not for pellucidity's sake then for productivity's sake—you must limit your Influences. While it provides the clay and shapes the molding of the clay, the Influence is, nevertheless, the Constant Invader. Thus: Command (and limit) the Influence, and there is nothing you cannot command (or limit). Hence: Oedipus Rex, Hamlet, Of Mice and Men, Casablanca, Waiting for Godot, Oleanna, Star Wars, Reservoir Dogs, Toy Story, etc... Without set boundaries and limitations—read, for example: gravity and atmosphere—there would be only infinite chaos, and thus, no discernable life. Or not. * * * Hm: "... shapes the molding..." A bit redundant, eh? Perhaps: ".... directs / governs / dragoons the molding..." would be more apt?
