Not sure if I can do my emotions justice, but right now I’m DEEP into my book research. Deep, deep, deep, deep. Like, really deep.
Can’t fully explain the phenomenon, except that it’s an odd merging of euphoria and frustration. Obviously you don’t become the subject, but the subject consumes you. It’s all you think about, all you talk about, all you worry about. This week, my wife is back home and my kids are with the grandparents. I’m all alone, in Florida, researching and writing. I love it. I hate it. I love it. I hate it. I want to know absolutely, positively everything about the person I’m writing about. What his shoes smelled like. What he read on the toilet. What he thought at all times. It’s impossible, sadly, but such is the obsession of die-hard biography. I don’t want any holes in this thing. I want to cover every minute. Every second. I want to call every single person he ever knew. The eight-year teammate. The two-week teammate. The doctor. The dog walker. The secretary. The kid who asked for an autograph. Every single person.
Again, not possible. But it’s my goal, and it’s beginning to drive me slightly crazy.
I feel like this is the book I was meant to write. I don’t mean that literally, like I was placed on earth to pen a biography of a football legend. But this is the most love and passion and zest I’ve ever held for a subject. The ’86 Mets were fun. Bonds was engrossing. The Cowboys were fantastic. Clemens was nightmarish. This, however, feels like … everything. My emotions are all over the place. Up. Down. Left. Right. I want people to read this book and say, “Holy shit.” Not, “Holy shitâ€”that guy’s a great writer” but “Holy shitâ€”that guy researched the hell out of that thing.”
I’m getting there. But I’m so far away.