Clinton, South Carolina, Monday, May 15, 2017, 9:36 a.m.
In the slug above, originally the time was 7:48. Then 8:39. Then 9:07.
I used to write blogs as a means of working my way into a mood conducive to writing fiction. Now I go straight to fiction (as opposed to video) because I can’t come up with a decent blog.
This is not at all bad. It’s just different.
I haven’t written as many blogs lately because my life has grown boring even to me.
I’m sure you will be crestfallen at not hearing of a delicious brunch with my mother and sister. Surely no more than 100 million people did anything like that on Mother’s Day. I didn’t even think to take pictures.
The Red Sox lost. I wrote a chapter. I finished reading a book. I started another.
My whole life seems the same: run by Donald J. Trump.
I’ve got a doctor’s appointment today. I expect to be taken to task. I have no idea how much I weigh. My pants haven’t tightened, but I bet I don’t weigh less than I did three months ago. I lack motivation. I’m not clinically depressed. I’m depressed for a damned good reason.
I’m slogging ahead, damn the torpedos, not to mention the likely loss of health insurance.
I’ve got a novel that is about 85 percent finished, but I set it aside to finish the new stock car racing novel, Lightning in a Bottle, and I haven’t been up to diving back into it. Instead, I’ve written 10 chapters on another novel. The former project is called Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, the latter Life Gets Complicated. When the titles are published, they’ll get italics.
So what has this blog achieved? How is it an example of anything save self-absorption? What sets it apart from social-media promotions of babies, pets, casseroles … and me. Not just me. All the other me’s.
I made light of Mother’s Day. Then spent a paragraph commiserating health. This was not something you need to know. Besides, I feel all right.
What I’m feeling is a little sorry for myself, and this encourages the ridiculous notion that anyone else cares about my problems.
Besides, everyone knows the solution to all problems, mine and yours, is for you to buy my books.
If you’d like me to mail you a signed copy of Lightning in a Bottle, or any of my other novels, you can find my address and instructions at montedutton.com. (montedutton.com/blog/merchandise)
I’ve written six novels and a collection of short stories. I’ve also written a number of books about sports, mostly about NASCAR. You can find most of them here.
The Kindle versions of my books, where available, can be found above. Links below are to print editions.
Lightning in a Bottle is the story of Barrie Jarman, the hope of stock car racing’s future. Barrie, a 18-year-old from Spartanburg, South Carolina, is both typical of his generation and a throwback to the sport’s glory days.
Cowboys Come Home is a modern western. Two World War II heroes come home from the Pacific to Texas.
I’ve written a crime novel about the corrosive effects of patronage and the rise and fall of a powerful politician and his dysfunctional family, Forgive Us Our Trespasses.
I’ve written about what happens to a football coach when he loses everything, Crazy of Natural Causes. It’s a fable of life’s absurdity.
I’ve written a tale of the Sixties in the South, centered on school integration and a high school football team, The Intangibles.
I’ve written a rollicking yarn about the feds trying to track down and manipulate a national hero who just happens to be a pot-smoking songwriter, The Audacity of Dope.
I’ve written a collection of 11 short stories, all derived from songs I wrote, Longer Songs.
Signed copies of Lightning in a Bottle are on sale at Emma Jane’s (see ad above). Signed copies of all my fiction are also on sale at L&L Office Supply in uptown Clinton, South Carolina.
Follow me on Twitter @montedutton, @hmdutton (about writing), and/or @wastedpilgrim (more opinionated and irreverent). I’m on Facebook (Monte.Dutton), Instagram (TUG50), and Google-Plus (MonteDuttonWriter).