Vacation Weeeeeeek

I am in the thick of my vacation-week. Learning a couple new songs on the guitar: Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen and Marry Song by Band of Horses. I'm slowing down the Springsteen and plucking it with a syrupy country rhythm. Marry Song is just a baby so far but I'll probably end up playing it pretty straight-forwardly.

Tomorrow, we're off to the coast for a night in a tiny cottage by the beach. La vie romantique!

Getting some writing on the book done. I realized the other day that I never heard back from a novella-in-process contest I submitted it to on McSweeney's back in January. Those jerks. Hey, here's a sampling for you, if you'd like one:

I remember once catching a fish with my bare hands in the river. I was down there with Robert’s nephew, Andrew. He’s a couple years younger than me and was visiting his uncles for the summer from Long Island. His skin is so pale I can see the veins underneath his eyelids and one on the tip of his nose. He silently sat on a boulder, like a gloomy pretzel, tapping a stick on the surface of the water. I tried to be friendly, asking him questions about school and sports. He shrugged limply at my fumbling and I grew silent too. I watched the river. It was a clear, sunny day. A young bull trout shimmered deeply and caught my attention. I crept down into the water, crouching, and waited. The fish swam between my ankles and with one quick dive of my hand, I snatched it from the water. Andrew held his tapping stick in mid-air, his mouth a neat, round O. A quick rush of boyish pride tripped me as I surged towards the bank, fish flopping in my hand. I fell, coming down hard on both hands. All my weight pressed onto the trout, making its skin pop like hotdog casing. My fingertips slid along its soft ribcage. Andrew blinked a few times at my bloody foul and burst into laughter.