Today in my coffee/writing spot I was treated to a chat between two people I am fairly certain were pathological liars. They were meeting for the first time, supposedly so she could get advice on the feature film script she was writing. He had a thick accent—possibly  Moravian* She sounded a lot like a Valley Girl and claimed to be 19**

He had done a series of documentaries that many major studios almost picked up.

In her brief life she had runaway at 12, worked on a marijuana farm, won a full scholarship to Stanford which she somehow lost because her roommate stole her bed, worked as a waitress, dated a mafioso, investigated the fate of the ‘disappeared’ in Chile,  and written a (still unpublished) cookbook. Her dream is to start a gluten-free luggage store with her mom.

I’ve cleverly changed a lot of the actual details, because I’m averse to lawsuits, but this is pretty close to the actual conversation.

*of course I’m making that up. It was Sanskrit.

**As in’30.’

That moment when you realize that your novel needs 30,000 more words minimum, genre-wise, but you may have only 20,000 words’ worth of novel left in your brain.

The people behind me in my coffee/writing place are having a detailed and graphic conversation about kidney disease, including output and asparagus. I’m putting on my headphones, because almost anything* in my iTunes collection is better to write by.

*With the possible exception of “Noises for Kids’s Halloween Parties.” Yes, I actually have that one.

My new excuse for forgetting things: keys, credit cards, people’s names, day of the week, is to smile, shrug, and say “I’m a writer.” Nobody ever responds as if this were a non sequitur.

Have a feeling I’m in the midst of writing a few thousand words of which I will keep a few hundred. Humor me. Tell me to keep writing anyway.

That moment when you have to (grudgingly) admit your critique partner was right about something and change it.

Today I’m mired in a swamp of banality and I think my novel sucks. That’s ok. Tomorrow* I will think it’s highly entertaining again.

*Or April at latest

As I wrote in my coffee/writing spot today, I was treated to not one, but two conversations at adjacent tables, on the subject of fishery science. This was good because I didn’t have the slightest desire to listen in.*

*Apologies to any employees of NOAA reading this, especially if you were one of the fishy talkers.

Usually I give a novel 15 pages to grab me, but Pulitzer Prize winners get a few more. You know, it’s like the difference between waiting for a T.A. and a full professor.

So I’ve given this very beautifully written book fifty pages. So far it’s about 80% back story, 50% of which is adjectives. NOTHING IS HAPPENING. Times up, award winning novel.

In fairness, I’ve probably been spoiled by reading The Goldfinch, a prize winning book that overflows with action and adjectives.

Thursday isn’t the day after Tuesday.