We're moving this week, sixteen trips up to the hills in my little Honda Civic, meeting with contractors, picking up furniture and boxing bags, which means my posts might be few and far between in the immediate future. But I need to write something every day, even if it is simply a declaration that I need to write every day, because it is time to start another book, and I don't need to have my brain cramping up on me. Writing first drafts sucks balls.
Justine and Holden had to go to LA this weekend for a funeral. I went from constant frantic hectic non-stop "Lucky-stop-licking-the-baby's mouth" and "Holden-don't-eat-daddy's-computer--cords to...nothing. There was no Justine complaining that I hadn't read the baby books and therefore wasn't properly participating in "sleep training," no squirreling away minutes to write, no waking up in the middle of the night to the baby's wailing or, worse, not making any noise, prompting me to hover over his crib, sometimes resorting to giving him a little shake to make sure he's still breathing. Everything was calm, peaceful. And I missed the noise.
It felt empty not having my family around. I got a lot of shit done with the move, scheduled a lot of appointments, took care of business. But when I'd come home to eat my steak dinner, the old house empty, quiet, it felt somehow wrong, and I could imagine what my life would be like, ten years from now, if I don't do this right. It isn't about the money, and it isn't about getting published. It's about finally being a man, taking care of what I care about, like my wife and kid. It just made me think, "Don't fuck this up, Joe."