Morning spit...

Is it just me or do other people notice the difference in viscosity your spit experiences first thing in the morning? I mean, honestly, this morning when I walked out to my car I spit a...

... anyway...

I nearly have the final feedback on that new book I started and, in case you felt left out because you didn't get to read it, don't feel too bad. The final tally was three lukewarm maybes and one scalding negative! One person couldn't bear to give me their opinion, so I'm guessing that's probably not a display of overpowering love for the book. Where I come from that's not exactly a rousing show of faith - so I'm going to put that one down.

Now, another idea has hit from left field and I've been mulling it over since the weekend. I really don't know where this one came from. Basically, it's a father/son story, with a single father. But not this kind of single father. More like this kind of single father... but with a British accent. (These things come to me; don't ask why.) Maybe this kind.

(And, oddly enough, I even have the grandfather cast, too...)

And, yes, this would submerge me deep inside the mainstream. Anyone who has any respect for me - anyone with any class - would be within their rights to BAIL!

I don't know. Maybe it's my own impending fatherhood that brings this on. And maybe once I'm a parent with Vicky, I'll know enough about two-parent households to actually write about one!

So, what else do I know about this so far? Well, it's about an ex-horror-movie-star (strictly C-list) who's trying to find his place in life and, when a female friend dies, is left with her 11-year old son. As usual, my brain has some idea but isn't telling me. It's leaving me to fill in all the details.

Here's the oddest part. The name of the book came to me last night in a dream. It's called Love of Your Life, with the tagline You Get More Than One. (So, what the hell's that about?)

Where is all of this coming from? Well, I think it's the spiritual descendent of a book I began about five years ago, around the time I was with Cindy. Some of you may recall that Cindy was the mother of three, beautiful girls. I had started a book called "Surrogates", about a man who suddenly finds himself responsible for a young lady, trying to deal with the issue in my own, literary way. That book never got past the sixth page, because I was better at evading the issue than dealing with it - the whole thing was one, long, arduous, extended metaphor. Here I am again. And maybe, this time, I can address it with a little more honesty.

We'll see where this one goes.

It could end up dying a quick death like the last one. Sadly, that's really more the norm than the way I worked last year, putting out book after book. But I'd like to write one more before starting school in the fall and give myself plenty of things to try and sell.

I'll keep you posted... about a lot of things...