Spring took a ten count today, buried by a blizzard that shows no sign of letting up. The weather folks say it’s going to last all night, and for once I believe them. The sky’s white, the ground’s white, even the air’s white. A real springtime in the Rockies kind of snow.
But it’s all good. Had a poached egg on toast for breakfast, two pots of coffee, and a good five hours of writing time. Finished the main draft of “Desperado,” which is now close to 10,000 pages. Won’t find too many lit pubs willing to take on that kind of word count, but can’t see shortening it by much without diluting the story. So the hell with it. Will let it stand, as is, and take my lumps as they come.
Got out mid afternoon to do a little shopping. Came home and sat in front of the fire reading the last of The Ox-Bow Incident. There are things about the book’s technique that feel dated, but even so, the lynching scene is as true and gut-wrenching as you’ll get. I know I’ll have to read the book again before long, because the first pass caught me off guard in a lot ways. It’s always nice to revisit an old friend—first get your recollections straight, second to have them deepened—and, whenever it happens, this is going to be one of those reunions.
Read a TV pilot, First Person Shooter, by my friend, George Olson, yesterday. What a ride! The man is a first-rate writer who pens script after script of marvelous stuff, and it’s great to see him hitting stride, professionally. Fingers crossed his new series meets MGM’s expectations and he walks away a millionaire.
