I do want to keep posting the journal but I have to write much longer about each turn of recent events since it seems so clearly to form at least the backbone, underpinning, underpainting of "the end," endgame of the novel.

Nick has just counseled me not to try to weave together the fictional narrative and the real one prematurely, advising instead that I write through the recent events, fresh in my mind. Then the surgery begins.

Driving home I had one of my rare moments of road rage. A lumbering van trundled toward me, straddling both lanes after having pulled out out lazily from the Lucky driveway. I gunned my motor and held my course, shouting so that he must have at least seen the color in my face "Get in Your Fucking Lane." He blinked.