Slim Randles'  Home Country

[August 23, 2008]  There are some things in life that must be done alone, and Dud was feeling the brunt of that realization. It was 3 in the morning, and he sat at the computer, trying once again to figure things out.

The truck driver was the problem. Dud had the truck driver as the father of the girl in the novel, and the girl's mother was a countess. That much he knew had to remain in the book. It was the classy part, you see.

He'd already cut down the number of murders in the first chapter from eight to just three, as that editor at the publishing house had suggested. Well, he hadn't actually suggested it, but was kind enough to write, "Eight murders in the first chapter seems excessive," on the bottom of the rejection slip, so Dud took it from there.

As he stared at the screen, trying to get answers from blank white spaces, Anita came up behind him and put her arms around his shoulders.

"I didn't mean to wake you, Honey," he said.

"No problem. Want some coffee?"

"I guess not."

"Couldn't you work on this on the weekend so you can get some sleep?"

Dud wanted to tell her of the burning inside, the deathless burden of the artist to produce great words that people would say generations from now. He wanted to tell her of his dream, to see his work in bookstores. To sign books, to ask people how to spell their names when he inscribed something nice in each one. But that is something a guy can't even tell his wife without sounding like a pompous idiot.

"Well ... tonight seemed like a good night to work on it," Dud told her.

Sometimes the things we leave unsaid almost shout at us.

[Text from file received from Slim Randles]

Brought to you by the dogs and cats at your local animal shelter. Pay them a visit and take home a new best friend.