It’s 9:28 am on Dec. 19. A few moments ago I dropped the wife and kids off at the airport. They’re gone to Florida for 13 days.
And I am here. Inside Nature’s Brew, an awesome little cafe just off the USC campus.
Here, to finish my book.
It’s due on Jan. 4. I’m somewhat behind—the product of dogged reporting getting the best of me, and becoming my obsession. I left a bit too little time to write, which happens, oh, whenever I do one of these. So I stress and freak and whine and mope and mope and whine and, ultimately, fight to get it done.
The thing that drives me crazy is when people say, “Oh, you’ll be fine.” I mean, yeah, I will be fine. But this shit is torture. You analyze every word, search for that perfect clip, try and recall where that nugget of information comes from. It’s the ultimate attention to detail, and it often has be talking to myself and screaming at the imaginary gods of Yinka Dare and Phil Pepe.
I took my son to see “Creed” last night, and it occurred to me midway through: This is now my training camp. Or something cheesy like that. I know that sounds unnecessarily cheesy and overly dramatic. But there’s no real time for goofing, no time for day trips. Gotta write, gotta write, gotta write.
(But maybe I’ll sneak in a movie or two)