I began writing The Good Kill in July of 2017 and worked on it just about every day in some capacity until March 31 when I completed the manuscript at last and in a rush rushed right out to the UPS Store (I am not sponsored by or own stock in the UPS Store, it’s just that it’s like twenty minutes closer than Staples, of which I am not sponsored by or own stock in) to get three copies of the masterly work of art (as regarded solely by yours truly at this point) printed out in a rush and then rushed two of them out to my editors who are AKA my worldly-wise and well-read and spirited sister and her dashing husband – yeah, dashing as in he’s pretty studly, but mostly dashing as in he’s continually dashing off after my worldly-wise and well-read and spirited sister as she leads them on yet another global adventure — and then rushed right back home where I sat and admired and stroked lovingly for hours and hours the third copy of the manuscript.
So after working on this book for several hours every day and thinking about it just about all hours of the day every day for twenty straight months and then all of a sudden it’s finished I feel as if… huh? What is it this life without the writing of that book to guide me, to lead me on purposely second after second, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, month after mo— I think you get the point?
I mean, sure I have the promotion of the thing to now worry me; and sure I have another book I’m anxious to work on — probably a novella… probably a novella about a possessed black metal band… probably a novella about a possessed black metal band that travels to Los Angeles for the annual Halloween Battle of the Black Metal Bands contest but has an identity crisis along the way… or something like that — but its like my brain is unable to reprogram itself from running word code for The Good Kill to running code, word or otherwise, for anything else.
Ah, what’s a boy like me to do…
Except flip endlessly and futilely through the streaming services for something to watch while waiting equally impatiently for the red marks from my worldly-wise and well-read and spirited sister and her dashing husband to arrive and the final season of Game of Thrones to begin at last.
Featured image courtesy of this joint