|The novel in autumn 2004 (note floppy and zip drives)...one phuckava sprawling-ass manuscript....|
It was after Freudian Press had dissolved.
"Want to see a picture of my illegitimate daughter?" I would ay before plopping down the 500 page dossier of hurt.
Somehow I kept writing and somehow the manuscript continued to gain literary calories not to mention, in tandem with its author, a robust beer belly. By autumn 2007 the manuscript was over a thousand pages, a thousand pages that had been hemmed and hawed and bleed over, a total of 350,000 words.
The manuscript went on the backburner. I started giving a shit ton of local poetry readings. I read my work on a local avant-garde artsy radio station. I got fired from Bradley. I moved back in with Uncle Mike, the house on Heading avenue, placing a writing desk in the woods, the same woods that I had immortalized in novel years earlier never having a clue that I would be crashing in (Nate Lockwood's granpas) house one day.
I continued to write poems. I went to Hollywood and performed at a cool bar with some of the most salient up-and-coming writers in the country. I come back home where every writer in Peoria fucking hates me.
Without further ado I give to you my heart, YELLOW MONKEY BARS & UNBIDDEN ERECTIONS-a failed campaign.