Cooking the Hook - NEW

There has to be a word for it. The buzz that you get from popping out a really great scene and the two or three days that you coast on that buzz doing nothing else.

Sometime in the night the sandman sent me someone else's dream, which I will savor and ponder. That- and the clean, fresh air  woke me. I don't even want to try and write it down because that never works. I might fixate on details like the young man's bright blue eyes, red-rimmed with the struggle to not cry, his blondish hair, six months overgrown beyond what must have been something stylish. His loss so clear on his face that I didn't even ask what had become of  his children's mother. An Ikea cafeteria of all places. It's easy to paint with words. Much more difficult to capture the tone and tenor a dream; the dreams that leave you wondering why. They had to have been intended for another so why bother.

Places with "the best kept secret" in front of their names never lasted long and they avoided them. This place was only known as 'the Mill' and didn't even have a listing in the Yellow Pages. Out front, steak and seafood at it's basic best. The bar was a warmly lit island with half of the twelve seats occupied by regulars on any night of the week. On the far side of the bar, the glassed-in dance floor extended out on pilings into the bay and was presided over by a pre-war Wurlitzer with no new music in it since 1965. The place had more than class. It was a time machine and since the past was Anna's realm, Jack let her take him there. The bartender saw them coming in and spread a stack of quarters in a glittering arc on the end of the bar knowing that his tips would more than triple this evening. The man in the black slacks and dress shirt, sleeves rolled casually up his muscled forearms, would seat the striking woman at a table off to the side where t...

From a printed synopsis I've been able to shuffle scenes around so things start making sense, see the gaping holes where I've kidded myself with "I'll flesh that out later" and killed a few gems of self-indulgence babbling It's really too raw to call it a rough draft, but I don't know a better word for it. Now the idle traffic light diversion is finding a title. Can you imagine? All this time having no name for a project that's taken up so much mental energy? I used to look at a textile piece in progress and the title would pop out of my mouth without a bead of sweat forming on my brow!

All I need now is one of those giant baseball glove floats. The water has finally warmed up to the point where I can stand in it for a few hours with papers and such spread out on the decking, radio, drinks..all the amenities and I'm not sitting on my ass.  No computer of course, but that's not a terrible thing. I finally printed out a synopsis and spent my time shuffling scenes around and noting which ones needed more work. Lot's of work. I've been foot dragging over this for a while now and it felt good to get it done. There is a glimmer of this going on:  " Saying Goodbye "' PS HOLY SHIT! 230 single spaced pages, 138K words plus forty pages of notes to be added in. It's looking like a rough draft!

The view from my office is not exactly inspirational, but it will do as a place to get things done - mostly in the form of transcribing notes that I've jotted down at every stoplight I come to. What part of the brain is it that comes alive when I am driving on autopilot and listening to the same well-worn playlist on my ancient I-pod? It makes me long for the days of 1.55 per gallon gas. Then I was preoccupied with bitchin' about that too. I haven't been walking as much as I want to. It's getting very hot earlier in the day here and the pool is final warm enough to get into. It's time for a change of routine. I'm dragging my feet over writing key scenes - the ones of heavy conflict, murder and mayhem. A change of scenery would be welcome, but not likely to happen anytime soon.

I've waited a couple of days to write anything about the finale of Mad Men just so that I wouldn't be assassinated by some stalker for spilling any spoilers. Not here, btw. For now, I just want to say how much I loved the opening sequence - Don piloting this muscle car across the salt flats like nothing mattered (it was just dawning on him that it didn't), then him stepping out of the car and peeling off the snoopy flying helmet and the realization that he had bamboozled some fools into thinking he was a race car driver. Of course, he is. From the beginning, it's always been about the car. I watched the show in a celebratory manner, trying to go drink for drink with whoever was on screen drinking. I even watched the encore, another round, I think. Sleep was deep, but never dreamless. For some time now I've been wrestling with the realization that my female main character is weak. It's been tough writing her into things. So much wallpaper. Jack is rich...