The title of my book (for now) “Invitation to a Funeral”, is like putting a roof on my house, under which words shall be arranged, rearranged and rubbish brought out to the curb. The minor structure becomes significant as it’s shaping a goal for myself. To complete a novel. Success defined not by publishing but the act of completing a readable long story. It’s as much about the cliche journey as the cliche destination. For myself anticipation can be better then the end result. I find food mostly looks and smells better then it tastes. The seduction can be better then the deed. The deed better then the relationship. It’s what the fuck boys got right……..I digress, really a roof on a house is not minor at all. Does the name of a book carry that much weight? Being that books are renamed and relaunched, I guess so. A price change or relisting a house, makes you think. Excuse the house metaphors, but we are currently in the process of selling/buying, you guessed it, a house. By the way, if you are even thinking of buying a house in Stratford Ontario, consider it was once called the the meth capital of Ontario. Just putting that our there. My life right now is busy. So busy in fact I rarely get a chance to commit myself to writing to more then a few minutes a day. This goal of writing a novel has the potential to take decades at the rate I’m going. I’m spending more time ‘writing about writing’ then writing the elusive novel. I like to keep busy though. I want to think about anything, except maybe one particular thing……. how vague and mysterious. And when I find myself alone with my thoughts, I use them to fuel my creativity. The secret to saving yourself, stay busy, distracted, creative and if a moment of cruel clarity comes to you, use it, don’t let it use you. But what does that even mean? Where does the act of using begin and being used end? I don’t know either. Like most things you need one to have the other. Who am I writing this for anyway? Well easy, me. If anything, it’s my therapy. Who am I posting for? That’s more complicated. The same people we all post for on social media. For each other. We’re all fucking peacocks now, showing our feathers. Warhol did say we would get our 15 minutes, social media however has created the most dilute version of it. Who wants to drink that kool-aid? All of us apparently.