Tuesday, January 17, 2006


I was sitting at my computer, working on some writing, and my mind wandered as it often does. The day my uncle died, I got word from an agent who wanted to see the Angel Book. I told him about it, and he asked me what the book was about. I told him it was the sci-fi one, because he knew about that one, because I didn't want to tell him that it was a book about death, about dead people. Now I wish I had had the courage to. I was brave or fool enough to write it. My uncle was actually on his death bed. I don't know why I'm thinking about it tonight. Writers revisit things, follow strings and threads, imagine possibilities, script entire lives in moments. You're always 'on'; you're like an antenna, always recieving, always relaying information. You feel like a beacon for all the random noise in the universe, and it's your hopeless job to decipher it.

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