Today is the end of Week #4 on Dead Man's Pond. I told my companion, Moy, that it felt as if we had been transported to an uncharted island. It seems as if we are hundreds of miles away from the Plaza, from Westport, from the Shithole. We are in the middle of nowhere, in a place where time stands still, where only the summer heat and ennui are constant.
I wake up in the morning and write, I remain at the PC all day and write, I write before I go to bed. I take breaks to cuddle my cat, Jigsaw, or to retire to my bedroom to read or to take naps. Cable TV is my entertainment nexus, the Internet is my lifeline to society. This has become the most productive time in my writing career and the most stagnant interlude in my personal lifetime. Something may be right around the corner, but yet again, there may be nothing at all ahead of me. I may be heading for the greatest victory of my life, or I may well be headed for oblivion.
This morning I received an e-mail from Damnation Books with a JPG of the cover of Wolf Man attached. I was absolutely thrilled and wrote back to the company artist expressing my appreciation. She was just as glad. I'm still waiting to hear back from Netherworld Books, who got my approval of their marvelous cover for The Fury last week (or was that last month, or last year?). When is the launch date? It was the same question I asked my contact at Alpha Wolf Publishing about Generations. It's scheduled to be published next month, which starts tomorrow. Or is that September of next year? Or a September of the next decade?
Time stands still here on Dead Man's Pond...didn't I already say that? I forget when to eat, or when I should, which is a good thing. The food supplies seem to remain constant, as do the available funds. Only the calendar rolls on. Hours, minutes, seconds are meaningless. It seems as if a decade ago when three minutes before my next break, my lunch hour, or logoff time at the Shithole were like three milleniums. I look at the clock and remember that I used to have to go to sleep at 10 PM. Now I never have to go to sleep again...or one day I might just as well go to sleep and never wake up again. Would it really matter? I doubt it. I am a million miles away from everyone and everything.
I haven't heard from Tenth Street Press. They made The Standard available online last month. Only it's an e-book, it doesn't exist in the real world. Did we make any money? I suppose not. If we did, and they decided not to pay, it would make no difference. Publish America said I did not make one dime after publishing five of my books. If I did not collect from them, I won't collect from Tenth Street. They are located in Australia, which is on the otehr side of the galaxy. Publish America is in Maryland, just on the other side of the solar system.
So, as you see, I'm writing the best work of my life, though I'm drifting further and further from reality. My reality has become my fantasies, but I can't even determine which of these are the most relevant. The Standard is to The Fury as Generations is to Wolf Man, which is as apples are to oranges. If someone asks what kind of novels I write, what could I say?
Who could ask? Who would ask? After all, I am a million miles away.