When we were on Fire Island earlier this summer, we were sharing a deck with a lovely couple of gents who owned a tiny purebred dog named Millie. Millie was an excitable little pup, always barking at me and Bill, though she saw us six times a day as we passed back and forth to the beach, waving at her daddies -- "Hi there." "Hi there." Every time, Millie would yap at us, and every time she was scolded in a Paul Lynde accent -- "Millers!"
And all summer, when I've been traveling back and forth to the writer's room, clocking in and out with myself in my notebook, I've been imitating them -- 1:00pm: I'm goners! 2:02 pm: I'm backers!
And today, I got to write, Donners!
And then I barged into the office at my writer's room and asked one of the proprietors to give me a hug. She had to do something to calm me down, or I was going to take a victory lap around the quiet room, smacking the backs of everyone's heads as they sat at their cubicles and hooting. DONNERS!
And okay -- I've started every paragraph of this post with the word "and," which is also a defect of the book, which I will have to correct in the second draft, which was what this paragraph was supposed to be about -- "And okay, I'm not done donners; I still have to do a polish before sending it to my first few readers, and once my editor sends it back to me I'll have to do another draft."
(There! I salvaged the paragraph!)
In any case, the first draft is done. If I'm hit by a bus, you can publish this thing, and I won't roll over in my grave. That's all I care about, really -- whether or not I could still get published if I were hit by a bus.
And, bien sur, poverty and war.
Yay! Poverty and war, hooray! I'm donners!