Today, 2nd Thursday of August (2009)

Today was an entirely different day from yesterday.  In terms of news, self means.

While yesterday, the TV showed clip after clip of angry people in Town Hall meetings, today the news was all about:

  • a huge wildfire in the Santa Cruz Mountains
  • an impending Bart strike (scheduled to begin Monday)
  • weekend weather prognosis:  HOT.  HOT.  HOT.

Self tried her best to stay away from the blog.  In the interests of her writing.  No good, she still had to wander over at least a couple of times every hour.

Moreover, since the start of the summer, self has made the remarkable discovery that she gets many of her best story ideas after hubby gets home.  Before that, she likely reads.  Or putters around the garden.  Or fabricates excuses to go on errands (yes, even with clunky car).  Or browses the web.  Or makes useless phone calls.  Or sits on the couch and acquaints herself with what her writing colleagues are doing.  Or bemoans her lack of financial stability (Hubby is with a start-up, and self’s part-time teaching provides nowhere near a livable salary).  Or posts stupid reviews on

After he gets home, even if they are in the middle of watching a very exciting episode of, say, “CSI:  New York” (Last night’s episode, apparently a re-run, featured American Idol runner-up Katharine McPhee, playing a woman who turns on her stalker, and she was phenomenal!  She even got to sing a little bit, in the last two minutes of the episode!), self will suddenly experience nirvana. Then she’ll start typing away like mad on her laptop, and she’ll insist —  insist —  that hubby listen to this amazingly brilliant thing she has just written:  which happened with “Appetites,” the piece that is now on the Cafe Irreal website.

Last night, she got a sudden brainstorm at 11 p.m.  This was murder.  She didn’t get to sleep until 3 a.m.  She tossed and she turned.  She kept getting up to read.  She finally had a slice of cake and a glass of milk.  Then, she doesn’t know what happened, but next she knew it was 8 a.m.  There was a half-full glass of milk on the floor by the bed, and an empty cake plate next to it.  Self doesn’t even remember going to the kitchen in the middle of the night.  But there it is before her:  the evidence.  Hubby is completely stoic about self’s nocturnal ramblings, for he leaves for the office without comment.

So, anyhoo, it’ll be a good couple of hours yet before hubby gets home.  Self is crawling through Maximum City:  Bombay Lost and Found.  One thing she can’t wrap her mind around is how the author kept from going crazy while interviewing possibly every known gang member in the city of Bombay.  How did he get to sleep, after spending hours listening to how this or that gang member carried out a contract killing?  Self must have read at least a dozen extremely detailed descriptions of rub-outs, today alone (For that matter, self, what are you doing spending this fine summer day reading about the murder rate in Bombay?).  Self realizes this is not particularly helpful to her writing.  She tries hurrying up.  But it’s no use: self’s mind continues to get stuck on all the passages with extremely gory details.  Why, self, why?  Why are you in possession of such a morbid imagination?

Now self decides she will make herself go to the San Carlos Farmers Market.  She hasn’t been in weeks, and she used to go every week with son, when he was visiting.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers, stay tuned.


  1. August 14, 2009 at 4:55 pm

    i’ll stay tuned to hear next post

  2. Penny said,

    August 16, 2009 at 1:46 pm

    Thomas loved the book but it does sound too violent!

  3. August 16, 2009 at 4:20 pm

    The first third is all about murderers, the second third is all about bar girls, and the last third is all about film-makers who have to deal with murderers. God, I don’t know how this guy got away with writing the things he did. He apparently spent every moment of his waking life, for a period of several months, with a beautiful 23-year-old bar girl named Monalisa. He very conveniently had his own apartment where he could entertain without his family.

    By the end, I was skimming. The first sentence of one of the last chapters is: “I am tired of talking to murderers.” Talk about understatement!

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