I ran across this photo of myself while cleaning up the photo files from last summer's foray into the wild's of upstate New York. I wrote quite a bit there -- the dreary weather seems actually to be a good incentive for writing. Going outside is not usually a good idea except on rare days when the sun comes out for a few hours and the days become radiant.
I remember re-reading a few chapters of book I started years ago called "The Class of 66," about growing up in upstate New York.
A lot of what I wrote was funny, some of it serious, all of it more than a little painful to resurrect, even when you control the narrative.
I've considered calling in a co-author -- an amiga who lives in England, of all places -- who graduated with me and seemingly put as much distance as she could from her roots in the Rust Belt. And several of my friends (also members of the class of 1966) want me to finish the book, too, no doubt sure Tom Cruise will play them when I sell the movie rights.
Who knows? But if I have trouble finding the time to blog every day, how-in-the-hell am I going to finish a 200,000-word book?
Enquiring minds want to know...
mjf
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