I wrote some more of my novel this morning (2900 words). The climax is near. I felt so tired afterward, maybe because I only got about 5 hours of sleep last night. It was as if my body wasn't allowing me to relax, when I very much wanted to get to sleep so I could get an early start on the writing.

My stomach has been very turbulent these last few days, too. I don't know if it has anything to do with the writing, or stress related to it, but I just don't feel much like eating because when I do, nothing agrees with me.

After I wrote, I called my mother in Chicago to chat for awhile. I don't remember how we got onto it, but I asked her what her earliest memories were. They were all memories of health problems or physical mishaps: getting her first pair glasses in 1933 at age four (an early age for that sort of thing), getting hurt when falling down steps with a bottle of milk, and being seriously ill with pneumonia and being treated with a shelf of medications. When I pointed out that all these memories were of negative things, of sickness or stumblings, she said, "You're right; I must have some happy memories too." And she went on to talk briefly about her mother taking her to concerts in Grant Park in Chicago, or going to visit her vividly blue-eyed grandmother on the weekend and having lunch. But then she returned to the melancholy memories, of which there were many, like health problems, bad sibling rivalry, and a tragic accident when a relative was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Heavy stuff, like 1950s movie melodramas mixed with film noir. No wonder I myself grew up with a penchant for the pessimistic and grim, a preference which I express in my almost constant absorption in gloomy thrillers and movies. Still, I didn't know before that my maternal great-grandmother had blue eyes (she died before I was born); I've never known anybody in my family who had blue eyes. Everybody's eyes have always been brown.

My mother is a health-obsessed person and a bit of a hypochondriac, something she's passed on to me and my sisters, and her memories certainly bear out how early this orientation began.

After I spoke with her, I got out of my apartment for awhile and went downtown. I stopped in at Forbidden Planet on 13th and Broadway, and found an absolutely hilarious "alternative" comic book called Tales to Demolish #3 which had deadpan, ironic parodies of the superhero genre, monster movies, and westerns. Even though I read the entire short booklet in the store, I bought a copy for $5 and read it again at home. I love this kind of wry intellectual humor, expressed in unpretentious, witty drawings--especially in its episodes about a superhero called "The Mongoose" who is engaged in an endless war between mammals and reptiles (I'm even cracking up as I'm writing this), as well as "Doctor Arcanus," who rescues a pretty girl from a thug only to have her laugh at him because his name includes the word "anus."

If you want to see more about Tales to Demolish, visit the link below at Sparkplug Comic Books. Click on the "store" link and then scroll down to artist Eric Haven, and you'll see the cover of Tales to Demolish #3 and his other books. Fun stuff!

SparkplugComicBooks

I'm coming into the home stretch for the first draft of this novel I'm writing. I hope to have it finished in a few days.

As you know from reading my previous posts, I've been working on this opus almost every day since June 11th, but today I just had to spend the whole day concentrating on my regular paying freelance work, so this weekend instead will be devoted to the novel.

I sure hope when I finish and print it out to read it, it doesn't seem like a piece of crap.

I have most of the climax mapped out in my mind, but who knows? Sometimes characters do surprising things.

Meanwhile, it's getting steamy outside again. Maybe I'll work the humidity into the story. I've already found one or two spots for the sirens that always screaming down the street in my neighborhood. I'll be writing some scene, and then the sirens will go by, and I'll just put my agitation and annoyance into one of the character's words. It calms me down, anyhow, and actually gives me a chuckle.

Now why would ANY of my characters even remotely resemble a guy named Sir Cranky?

It was such a dreary overcast 4th of July. Not having any special plans, I did my novel-writing stint (2800 words) and then relaxed at home. Went out for a couple of short walks but it seemed to start raining every time I did, so I generally stayed close to home.

I finished that Ryu Murakami novel about a serial killer, In the Miso Soup, which I mentioned in a previous entry. The first two sections of the book were fantastic, but the last section got too philosophical and lost the edge of realism that had made the earlier parts successful. I got impatient as the killer went on long monologues that may or may not have been lies. The wind-up was just so-so. What made the book worth reading was its thoughts about contemporary Japan and its absolutely accurate take about the existential loneliness underneath the glitter of the adult entertainment scene. I envied Murakami's superb ability to describe that atmosphere, as it's certainly a topic I've tried to deal with here in my blog as well. Also, I enjoyed the fascinating cultural details about Japanese life, such as how people like to eat soba, or buckwheat noodles, on New Year's Eve. The noodles are very long, and supposedly it's a way of insuring one will have good luck and a longer life.

But I can't hide the fact that the book, turning from a nightmarish realism into a strange kind of dialogue between the thirtysomething killer and his younger nightlife guide through Tokyo, went from being absorbing to almost boring. It's not a good idea to switch the tone so radically in the telling of a story. It breaks "the fourth wall," to use theatrical jargon--breaks the spellbinding illusion that what you're observing is real, making the spectator self-conscious and less involved in the proceedings...

Last night I watched a DVD recording of an episode from a 1950s tv anthology show called Playhouse 90. The ninety-minute drama was called "Bomber's Moon," and it was written by Rod Serling of later Twilight Zone fame. The late Robert Cummings, who was more famous as a comic actor in the 40s and 50s, here played the lead role, a bomber squad commander in World War 2 who keeps his fear at bay with a truly chilly cynicism. Rip Torn played a young pilot who admits to being afraid to go on his missions, and Cummings' character verbally abuses him at every turn for what he sees as the pilot's cowardice.

The show was amazing, and this was probably the best thing I've ever seen Cummings do. It was originally performed live, and the recording was of a kinescope made during the broadcast, so it's not of the sharpest quality. Still, it deserves to be widely seen.

At one point a British woman (played by Hazel Court, later famous for roles in Roger Corman horror movies) expresses her love for Cummings' character, and after initially warming to it, he angrily rejects her because he suddenly feels that her affection has softened his hardness for war. It was a startling and unusual scene, and Cummings played it superbly. What a fine actor he could be when given the material. His weary face here, minus his trademark smile as a comedian, communicates terrible emotional pain. He eventually reneges on his rage and returns to her arms for comfort, but the situation that Serling describes seems correct in this particular soldier's case: the woman's affection does help break his character's protective shell (or maybe he uses her affection as an excuse to break it himself), and once he begins to mourn for all the men he's lost on flying missions, he loses his effectiveness as a leader. A similar theme of how commanders try to keep grief at bay was explored in the great 1949 Gregory Peck film Twelve O'Clock High, but Bomber's Moon takes it in a different direction by including the love angle.

I know from my reading that Rod Serling had some very intense experiences during his service in World War 2, and this script draws on his understanding of all the paradoxes of people striving to retain their humanity during war. It was a fine, honest piece of work, and especially appropriate to watch this July 4th.

The show was directed by John Frankenheimer, who went on to make movies like Seven Days in May and The Manchurian Candidate, and the cast also included Martin Balsam as a cocky pilot with an eye for the ladies. Yes, Bomber's Moon is an unjustly obscure gem.

It's just after midnight, early on July 4th. It was such a beautiful evening that after I finished my day's work I went out for a walk. I stopped by Lincoln Center where they had "Midsummer Night Swing," a big band playing dance music. Very pleasant just to stand around and listen, watch people bouncing to the music. I saw several women with odd hats, too. Then I went to a diner and had a reuben sandwich.

Lots of people were out and there was a relaxed but festive mood in the streets. I sat at Columbus Circle near the fountains after my dinner, then went home to watch the 1941 movie The Ziegfeld Girl, starring Lana Turner, Judy Garland, and Hedy Lamarr. I picked up the movie because the other night I watched Lana in the 1955 Biblical epic The Prodigal, and the commentary with that movie mentioned how sexy her walk was in The Ziegfeld Girl, made when she was just 20. No kidding. She was so sexy in every damn scene that I could barely watch the screen. I had to turn the movie off and take it in a half-dose. I'll watch the rest of it in the next few days. Talk about fireworks! I heard how during World War 2, Lana raised $12 million dollars on a war bond tour by kissing guys. Now THAT'S patriotism.

I've been working on that novel manuscript I've mentioned in previous posts. I'm well past the two thirds mark of completing the first draft. I hope to be finished in about nine or ten days. It's pretty tiring writing it on top of my freelance work, but so far the story is holding my interest, which is a good sign. But working at such a fast pace is almost like living in a second reality for the two, two and a half hours a day it takes me to complete my daily 2000 word quota. Still, I feel I have no choice but to do it this way. If I drag it out, my negativity will set in, and the demon of hopelessness inside me will have more time and ample opportunity to convince me it's a piece of shit, and I might as well give it up. So the hectic pace is a preventive measure.

I just keep telling myself it's just a story I'm writing with the aim of making some money down the line. That keeps me off my high horse...I hope.

Maybe when I'm done I'll treat myself to a steak dinner and hit the stripclub to find some cute Japanese girl to give me a lapdance or two.

Anyway...maybe I should hit the hay now so I can get up early and write tomorrow morning, then enjoy the rest of the holiday like everybody else. Have a Happy Independence Day!

These weekends go by so quickly. I went to a memorabilia show on Saturday, where I picked up a couple of 50s pinup magazines and obscure old movies on DVD. It's as much a social occasion as a collecting experience, as I hang around for hours and talk with my dealer friends about old movies, new movies, and gorgeous actresses of yesteryear as well as today.

In the evening I went out for a Japanese dinner and a small chilled bottle of a sake called Chokara, then I walked around Times Square a little. It was so incredibly crowded, though, that after I stopped at a newsstand on 42nd Street to pick up a copy of the new issue of Classic Images, a film buff newspaper, I decided to go home.

I watched one of the DVDs I'd picked up, a 1956 programmer called A Strange Adventure which, despite the bland title, was a good little crime thriller that featured the late Nick Adams in an early role as a gangster with a perpetual cold, and Marla English, a pinup model turned actress, who did a credible job as the femme fatale who dupes an armored car driver into helping her buddies knock off a payroll. Jan Merlin, an actor most remembered for playing on an early 50s sci-fi show called Tom Corbett, Space Cadet, here nicely portrayed the vicious head of the gang.

Today I got back to reading that book I mentioned in my last entry, In the Miso Soup. It's turning out to be one of the most nightmarish books I have ever read in my life. It takes place in Tokyo about ten years ago. A twenty-year old Japanese guy named Kenji shows an American named Frank around the sleazy sex nightclub scene, and it quickly becomes apparent that Frank is deranged and very possibly a serial killer. But what makes the novel especially interesting is author Ryu Murakami's thoughts on Japanese and American culture, as well as his accurate depiction of the creepy loneliness inherent in the commercial sex industry no matter what country it's based in. The section I got through this afternoon, however, culminated in some terrifying violence as the American goes berserk in a bar. I almost couldn't believe what I was reading.

It's amazing what's published these days. When I read a contemporary thriller (and this one, in fact, is not even contemporary as it first came out in Japan in 1997) I am dumbfounded by the level of violence to be found. I guess my tastes in fiction lay more in the works of paperback thriller authors from the 50s and 60s--although Jim Thompson had some pretty disturbing stuff in his noir novels of that era. Come to think of it, Frank the American in the Murakami book kind of reminds me of the crazed killers from Thompson's books.

Anyway, I hope In the Miso Soup comes together in the end, because as fascinating as it's been, the violence is really hard to take, although it seems an accurate reflection of the kind of insane world we live in today. Because the book takes a long time getting to the violence, and because it establishes its literary seriousness with its honest and insightful dissection of the commercial sex industry, the carnage seems to be leading to an important point--which I hope will be made clear by the novel's final pages so that I am not just left with a despairing feeling of total anarchy and nihilism.