Just calling a spade a spade. The last few days I have figured out my second novel, after a record-breaking amount of time (for me) of not knowing what the hell I was wriitng.

So I am literally in a trance right now, a writing trance. Yesterday, I wrote 35 pages. Today, I wrote 41. And compared to the crappy five and six pages a day I was managing a few weeks back, when I was in the dark about my novel, these are some SWEET pages.

Not perfect, mind you. Just real reputable, first-draft pages. I can go back and fix the particulars and make sure the levels are right. But at least I know what my story is, and I half can't wait to get to the end to see how it ends up, and I half don't want to get there, because this feels wonderful.

Another thing that feels wonderful is that I finally have a vision of a novel that is a suitable follow-up to Out of the Pocket. This one's gonna be fun to read, I promise.

Oh, right. Unbearable.

I am unbearable when in this state. Have you ever had acquaintances at work, maybe, show you pictures of their dog? And you look, but you don't really give a s**t? That's me, right now. I am so in this world, and I want to talk about it with EVERYONE. But no one else is in that world right now, so they don't get it, nor do they get that they don't get it. Why would they? What would you say if some weird guy came up to you and was like, "you'd never guess what my main character said today to his good friend!"

You'd be like, I need to walk away from this lunatic, and if you did so, you'd do it quietly and carefully.

Ok, so I will say no more, other than to say that my novel is tentatively titled OPENLY STRAIGHT, it takes place in an all-boys' boarding school in Massachusetts, and it involves a once openly gay kid deciding he'd rather not be that anymore and going back in the closet at this new school. It's a "going in" rather than a "coming out" novel.

So I won't take it personally if you avoid me, these next few weeks. And I will do my best, if I see you, to not take out my dog photos.