Yesterday, during dinner with my father, I had a breakthrough. "Holy  
(swear word)," I said, during one of our long stretches of silence.  
"That's how I should do it!"
"Are you drunk," my father asked me (I wasn't!), but I chose to  
abstain from comment as I'd already excused myself and headed back to  
my room where I spent the next three hours sorting out several scenes  
I'd been thinking about all week. I finally figured out how I wanted  
to end a crucial middle chapter scene (important semi-secret revealed  
in dialogue!), and that ending coincides nicely with this vignette I  
have to write (the book is told in two parts). I know all of this is  
vague and sounds semi-made up, but I swear--by the moon and the stars  
and the sky-- the connections developed post-dinner yesterday have  
rendered my book almost readable.

So that was a positive. Because the rest of the day was utterly  
horrible. It rained here, which my dad thinks I had something to do  
with ("Do you think it's a coincidence that it's rained twice since  
you've been here and once before that in the past month?" "Yes."  
"Well...I don't."), and my writing was largely devoid of nouns and  
clauses. I did drink seven waters, though.

The Father-Son Relationship Quote of the Day:
During an introduction:
"This is my son."
(Pause)
"He's a writer."
(Long Pause)
"Of sorts."

Anyway, I will be taking a side trip up to San Francisco for the next  
few days--a city I've never actually been to, but tell everyone that  
I love--to see some friends. Now I can't say for certain, but I'm  
pretty sure that at least one of the Internets works up there, so we  
can continue our conversation while I'm (insert touristy San  
Francisco activity here).

And fear not: the hits from 1998 keep coming. Because when everything  
feels like the movies, yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive. Right?

Iris,

Goo Goo Dolls.