Do you believe in miracles?

I wish St. Patrick could come back to Earth for one day. Surely we'd find him in Japan, leading his flock away from radiation, into a field of soft shamrocks.

Vito Gras!

Vito went a little nutty and spilled a glass of wine on himself during his annual Mardi Gras party (for the second year in a row,  he was his only guest).  We called for an intervention.  He promised to lay off the parties and stick to water.
Photo by Brian Pedersen.

Epic

Vito waits sadly

"I am on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available. If you try it once, you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body."

- Charlie Sheen

Here’s what my day is like: revise my novel, feed myself, revise my novel, relieve myself, revise my novel, feed my family, revise my novel, go to sleep.

There’s no energy left for Vito, or the two porn gods who live with my family.

Vito looks at me pleadingly (The brown eyes pleads. I never know what’s going on with that half colorless one). He is beginning to remind me of that thin, sad dog in the commercial for the antidepressant Abilify, waiting by the door for his owner to finally take him on a walk.

But I am not allowing myself go anywhere until I’m done revising my novel. I’ve chained myself to my dictionary and thesaurus, a prisoner of grammar.

Revising a novel is nothing like actually creating one

             The act of inventing a book is like a narcotic. When the words pour forth onto the paper, I’m a bitchin’ rock star. Tiger blood courses through my veins!  After 1,000 words each day, I’m done. Vito and I slap on our alien brains and we become a pair of high priest assassin warlocks to be reckoned with.

For me, revising a novel is the opposite of writing it. It’s like Charlie Sheen without the “Adonis DNA.” Studying every tense and analyzing every analogy is all work. I barely have the energy left to help Vito brush his teeth, and this is not okay with him.

When I told him that I’m doing this for us, so that we’d be winners, he opened his mouth and burped, “D-u-u-uh.” When I asked him if he thought I should spell “d-u-u-uh” with two “u’s” or three, he got mad. He grabbed my Chicago Manual of Style and buried it somewhere. I still haven’t found it.

He is showing signs of depression from my neglect. If I don’t snap this novel into shape soon Vito is going to need a prescription for Abilify.

 Or maybe a transfusion of gnarly tiger blood.

That would be epic, man.