i need to get going on this

it’s almost the middle of the month, and i still have huge big gaping holes in the plot.  jim and i have been distracted by all sorts of things, and we haven’t had time for our usual pursuits, like hashing out what happens next to whom.  and i haven’t been doing a lot of thinking about it outside of lying sleepless in bed thrashing out about how little time i have before commencing to write.  november 1…

i had my ex pop by this afternoon, with my kid downstairs with the swine flu (a walking cold that turns into walking pneumonia and bronchitis because they never slow down until it fells them) and jim and i watching the baby for the weekend.  that’s my issues with my ex, my issues with my kid, my issues with the baby, and then all of their interissues, too.  good thing jim just sits there taking it all in, amused.  because if he had issues as well we’d all be up shit’s creek.

you know, i’m going to cuss alot in this blog.  i’m going to cuss alot in the story.  i cuss like an irishman anyway. do i cuss like an upperclass irishman?  no i do not.  i cuss like a street urchin, i cuss like a woman of the fucking people.  i cuss like a ‘real’ dubliner (from the coombe).  it’s the people i hung out with when i was in my 20s.  i talk like them.  except for the accent, of course.  that fell away within months of coming home.

you’ve got to know this is fiction instead of projected fantasy.  there is way too much else going on in my life for any of this to be more than speculation.  even if my brothers and sisters start mysteriously dying.  which they won’t, of course.  but if they did…  which reminds me of oj simpson’s besteller – i didn’t kill her, but if i did, here’s how i did it.  a real statement of innocence, and an honest attempt to help law enforcement find her killer.  i’ve heard it said that you can’t be tried twice for the same crime in this country, unless you slice it a different way.

i’m a little concerned about the effect my writing might have on the young and impressionable.  if you google ‘kill mom’ you come up with some frightening posts;  repulsive not so much by their anger, but more for the immature vituperation and whiny complaints of the teenager you used to be.  was i that self centered and short sighted?  sure i was.  and so were you.  but that doesn’t mean that some stupid 16 year old isn’t going to read what i say as an open invitation to take it out on her own mom?  it happens.  that’s why we never had a gun in the house when my kid was coming up.

but every time i sum up the plot for someone, they agree that it’s preposterous.  ‘i’m writing this story,’ i say.  ‘it’s got all the kids deciding that mom’s got to die and how they fuck it all up.’  my audience laughs guiltily.  ‘except that mom’s still alive at the end of it all,’ i continue.  they like this.  that sounds like mom, they always say.  and does everybody else die? they ask.  ‘everybody but me,’ i reply modestly.  ah yes, they smile wisely, you’re writing it from your jail cell.  they’re so smart.


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