Well well well. We meet again.
Non-Fic. I thought I would check in with some updates, starting with the news that I’m writing non-fiction again. Not exclusively, mind you. But I have missed that scene and I’m the type of person who levels up better while under pressure. That’s not an invitation, oh mystical Fates, but…yeah. As luck would have it, I was offered a great opportunity to do more food writing, so here you are, my first contribution to Men’s Journal:
Fic. And then there’s THE BOOK. I’m getting things done. Trust. The process of flinging it out into the world at this stage is boring so I’ll spare you. Okay, it’s not boring…I’m just oddly hesitant to blab about it. I might be living in a perpetual state of breath-holding. It’s hard to speak under these conditions.
I’m also writing short stories again, having been stuck under an editing rock for so long. I don’t sleep.
Reading. At the moment I’m reading Foundation by Asimov. Hitting up them classics. And enjoying it so far. Next I’m determined to get to Pratchett’s Hogfather at last. I’m actually audiobooking Foundation and physically reading Birds of America by Lorrie Moore. I fear genre insulation.
Stuff. In my spare time, I doodle and take long walks on the beach while trying to avoid the sea monsters because I only take long walks on the beach in my frightfully vivid dreams.
I had been able to observe that there was a sprightly sportsman behind the counter mixing things out of bottles and stirring them up in long glasses that seemed to have ice in them, and the urge came upon me to see more of this man.
P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves and Bertie novels are the stuff to make a Los Angeles commute mildly bearable. I finished reading Carry on, Jeeves last week and Bertie mentioned a certain drink. Me being me, the audiobook was paused and an internet quest for the libation ensued. Thanks to this Esquire article, I was better able to . . . fully experience the literature, let’s say. A Green Swizzle saved our Wooster from an awkward social situation and a drink like that simply cannot be ignored.
Still, rum would be my last choice as far as spirits go, and sugared cocktails get cannon fire by law. I need a drink with snap, a razor-sharp thing to keep me aloft through ribald evenings and terrible choices. I need a gin gimlet more often than not. But anyway I tripped to BevMo for crème de menthe because who has that lying around and I made the thing because books.
All in all, not bad. The rum did get in the way. And I may have added seltzer (effervescence!) post-shoot. But I could picture earnest Bertie fagged by his attempts to help the chumps he calls friends, desperate for an herbal tincture — a few deep swigs from a tall, frosted glass — and I thought, Really, he should have taken Jeeves’ advice about that tie.