Chapter 90: Hot Stuff

While I was jogging this morning, I passed an attractive young woman who was chatting with a neighbor of hers. She saw me and flashed me a thumbs up sign. I smiled, waved, and said good morning.

I don't think she was flirting with me. I think she was acknowledging that we both suffer from the same sickness. You see, she had exercise clothing on, too. For all I know, she might have just come back from a workout at the gym. Mind you, this is before 7 a.m. As Met first baseman Lucas Duda said about playing yesterday in 90-plus degree heat, "It's freaking hot out there!"

Of course, that's why I was out jogging before the rest of my household (other than the cats) was awake. It's freaking hot out there and getting hotter!

Why is it that joggers feel the need to get those miles in, mile after mile? Is it a madness derived from wanting to know how far we've gone? I mean, most joggers I know keep logs of either time run, miles run, or both. Or is it possibly because we have some undisclosed need to torment our bodies? No, I don't think so. If I did, I'd be like I was in high school and run in the middle of the day during days like this, running sans t-shirt in the hope that I might impress someone. To my knowledge, the only remarks I ever heard were about how stupid it is to run in such deadly weather.

I don't run as far or as long as I did just a few years ago. Kids'll do that to a guy. Probably to a woman, too. But I still long to put those miles down, to mark the steps taken. To know that, for at least a half hour or so, I pushed myself on this day, despite the obstacles.

Crazy. It's just too freaking hot out there.

Stay cool, everyone!

Chapter 67: The Rest Is Academic

Yes, that title line is supposed to be a joke. I finished the book earlier today, though I have discovered in some skimming that I still have a bunch of smaller tweaks to make still. Tomorrow, after a hearty jog, I'll devote as much of the day as possible to reading it full through. I know there'll be some word changes to make, and I want to make sure my town names remain consistent (aside from Hoboken and New York City, I decided to fictionalize the other towns I mention, though they're based on places I know -- some of the cities have been combined for the sake of convenience.)

Of course, I still don't have an agent, much less a publisher. I'm confident that the right opportunities will arise.

Chapter 57: Progress Report

I was on vacation this past week. Nothing exotic. The living room table -- my wife's "branch office" as she likes to call it -- where my laptop lay waiting. I had two goals for the week: get a good head of steam on editing my novel, and run at least twenty miles. The running was relatively easy (as of Saturday -- with my long run still to come -- I've already got 19.2 miles under the waistband of my sweatpants). While I've not yet completed the edit (nor did I expect to in a week), so far I've gone through the first 280 or so pages of what was the second draft (of 350 pages) and culled it to about 230. At this point, I expect the third draft to weigh in at less than 300 pages. My wife's amazed. She might even read it this time!

Her inability to get past page 110 or so was actually quite helpful, as was the inability of one of my brothers to get that far. I figure I can expect about 50-60 pages from these folks out of love and family. But if they can't finish it, I can't expect anyone else to either -- especially an agent. The key is listening to my early readers and finding out why they couldn't get farther. It turns out that all the well-written character development didn't move the story along as well as I'd thought. So, much of it went bye-bye. Indeed, of the first four or five chapters, I retained two scenes, both used as backstory -- one of them much deeper in the book.

It's still not perfect. I had to add a scene, but as I was jogging yesterday I ruminated over the new scene. I'm not sure it works, and I'll need to re-read it. The two-year anniversary of my initial completion of the novel is just a little more than a week away. That is my goal: have the new edit done by that date. I won't need to take another vacation to do it, but I must say it's been one of the most satisfying vacations in my adult life.

Chapter 53.3: Bah Humbug!

No, that's too strong, 'cause it is my favorite holiday.

It is beginning to feel a smidgen like Christmas. Perhaps it's the chill in the air or the news that Santa got waylaid somewhere over Denver and had to stop his time bending trip preparations with a layover in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Or maybe it's because I saw a small flake flash before my wandering eyes this morning as I got out of the PATH train station. Maybe it wasn't snow. Maybe it was a piece of windblown crud.

Or maybe it's because I'm about to get my Christmas wish: a couple hours off from work -- well, a few days, actually. But with the travel to see my loved ones and rip open a few presents and toss back a few beers, it'll feel almost like work. Almost. I'll have Tuesday.

No, what I'm looking forward to doing is mapping out a week of winter vacation to do whatever I want to do. At home. Cooking breakfast for my wife after making her late to her office (which is just a room away). Jogging more than 20 miles in a week -- in sunlight. And working on the novel. If I can finish the revisions in a week, it could be the second best vacation of my life -- after the one where I proposed to my wife, of course. At least I'd have an idea of how much work is needed. Then I could use my train commute to sketch out the next book or evaluate literary agents. That's work too, but it's future-focused work.

I'm reading Book Doctor on the train this week, by Esther Cohen. Funny. Some wonderful scenes and playful characters. Not as good as Ward Just's An Unfinished Season, which I finished earlier this week, but it moves along at a comfortable pace. I find myself wishing I knew someone like Arlette Rosen, the lead character in Book Doctor, who devises clever exercises to help writers see their characters and the focus of their books more clearly. I know what I'm writing; making it compelling seems to be my battle.

So I need another vacation. That's what I'm asking Santa for Christmas. Oh yeah, and an iPod.