I've hit, just tonight, forty thousand words in A Year in the City. That's just under half way. Today was the second season, 'Autumn (the Fond Farewell)'. Rewriting moves pretty quick, really, in the final stages now, and yeah, I'm going to make updates like this. Feel the joy. You know why I'm making these? Because I'm stuck in this tiny room typing to meet the deadline I imposed. The deadline that allows me about three months of dissertation rewriting, which is about what it'll take to hammer that into shape, I'm sure.
I sent a text message to a friend asking what her middle name was. Evelyn, apparently.
My friends are all minor characters in A Year in the City. It's a personalised city, a subjective city, which is one reason, but the other one is simply that it becomes mind numbing to continually think up new names for minor characters. So my friends are like actors: they play junkies, sisters, criminals, lovers, musicians, aunts, and whatever else I can come up with. They approach it like they would approach being a zombie in a horror film, mostly by moaning piteously over the phone or in person and threatening to eat new born babies. I tell them it's not that kind of novel. They tell me that they always suspected that I was a boring author, which is why they've never read my shit.
This is also why I asked for a list of the music that J. had listened to throughout the year. She told me she felt used for research purposes, but she doesn't know about the months I paid to have a private detective follow her around, recording everything she did.
It's for the novel, I promise.
Aurealis finalist stories trickle in to me. For some odd reason, it appears that a whole lot of editors have taken off on bloody holidays and reply to my emails by saying, "Sure, when I get back from drinking vodka with Russian mobsters, I'll send you the story." Actually, that was Paul Haines' email. I am suspect. He has such violence and I always suspected it was connected overseas. True story: the first time I met Haines, he was dressed as a member from the Taliban. Fortunately, Lea Greenaway, who I've never seen, and thus can't associate her with brutal regimes that burn television sets, and who is also the director of the awards, is going to send me down the stories in the next couple of days.
In case you're wondering, I am also a character in the novel. I am the author.