Monday, January 12, 2009

The Gauntlet: Prologue

The print shop is still open at this point. It won't be for much longer, unfortunately. Not throwing in the towel, just setting it aside to start again later. I think of it being like a power cycle on a router or modem, just one that takes a few years.

I look forward to the day we restart.

What I don't look forward to, however, is this coming week.

Here's my schedule. Please bear with me for a moment as I use this to plan my week. Sort of like thinking aloud at the dinner table, ya know?

Day shift, graveyard shift, day shift, sleep. Day shift, graveyard, day, graveyard, day... then I don't know what happens friday afternoon, 'coz Plaid doesn't schedule more than one week ahead.

What this means is that to start The Gauntlet, I get to start 'slow' with just 36 hours without sleep or rest. Then I'll sleep until round two of The Gauntlet, and maybe get away with just 60 hours without rest or sleep.

I'm gonna go get a bottle or two of no-doze. I guarantee you I'll be poppin' that shit like candy. I'll try to keep up with this over the next week, but I might just take notes and write it after each round.

Wish me luck. I'll keep in touch one way or another.

1 comment:

  1. Heya-- You know me, but not that well, and anonyminity lol.

    Anyway, I hear that you're insecure about your writing.

    Bollocks. Play your cards right and you have a book deal on your hands, whether you keep it straight-edged or decide to go all Gaiman on this shit. You're good. I'm picky. You're good.

    I had a job like yours once-- a summer job. It was at an airport. It was a favor to my mother's friend, in warmer climates. Ah, the memories. The best day was September 11th, 2002. I volunteered to work that shift because I knew it'd be slow, and if not then interesting.

    I shall never forget the moment that blustery hour when there was a sudden "WHUMP-BANG". My third (and last) customer of the day dropped to the floor with her hands over her head, and a moment later-- rumble, rumble, plop-bounce-- a goddamn coconut rolled off the roof and landed harmlessly outside the sliding glass door.

    I wish I'd had some snappy pina-colada/al qaeda line prepared, but as it was I just sold her a Luna bar and a Mademoiselle magazine and that was it.