I’m back to work on Conjure Man, coloquially known as Son of My Most Favored Son (or Book).  Actually, they’re twins now, since Witch also knocks my socks off every time I go back and reread it.

There’s a peculiar excitement in coming to a project that’s lived in your head for years.  It’s like Picture Day, winning at cards and a sugar high all rolled up.  You are elated, self-conscious, excitable and concerned that the Russian gangster running the card game might have decided to knock you out and sell you on the black market.

It’s like opening a giant box of gourmet chocolate and eating your favorite truffle, then another you like nearly as much, and reaching for a third and realizing you can’t possibly sample the entire box without vomiting or ending up on the evening news because you have shaved you neighbor’s dog and stolen a police car.  You become paralyzed with the dizzying delight of possibilities.

There is no cure for chocolate syndrome and I don’t wish for one.  I like having the endless breath and width of a Story open before me.  The time to narrow focus comes all to quickly, as you realize “Oh, I wanted peanut brittle all along” and begin writing.  Nothing catches the eye like a new idea in the light, and I believe one should savor the moments of terror and euphoria when they emerge.

But try not to shave any dogs.

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3. Augusten Burroughs, Dry

I read Running With Scissors in college, and found it mordantly amusing.  Dry just isn’t as much fun.  The wackiness here is all Burrough’s, and while he’s not above self-deprication and doesn’t ask the reader to feel any sympathy for his plight whatsoever, after a while it’s akin to watching a dead horse kick itself in the groin.  The chronicle of alcoholism and sobriety is painfully detailed–the first time.  When Burroughs relapses and starts smoking crack in addition to drinking, it’s curiously glossed over.  If I were in the mood to analyze, I’d say Burroughs still carries real shame about his second period of addiction.  Either that, or he couldn’t wring any precious hipster jokes out of smoking crack in the South Bronx.  (And really, who can?)  He doesn’t demand empathy for his addiction, but I ended up feeling manipulated, as if by decrying his situation Burroughs expected a pat on the head, felt he deserved it more than all those other drunks who can’t turn a witty phrase or get seven-figure book deals.  If he wanted a pat on the head, he should have painted himself as less of a martyr.  Or been funnier.