Back in July 2007, I was in Waikiki, waiting for a bunch of people to arrive for a wedding rehearsal dinner. It was a gorgeous evening, not too muggy, just enough moisture in the air to scatter the light and do incredible things to the sunset. I was working on my third glass of pineapple juice (beer you can have any time, but fresh pineapple juice? Pour me another, dude) when I realized I was surrounded by white people. White people behind the bar, at the bar, at the tables, waiting on the tables, even a trio of white guys playing ukeleles and mangling songs in the golden light. Everyone said “aloha” and “mahalo” without any sense of irony. And then these words jumped into my brain:
“The one thing they taught us in B-School was this: if you’re working for the Colonial Services, for God’s sake, don’t go native.”
I pulled out my phone and fold out keyboard and started typing. And now, some nine thousand words into Windswept, I’m not going to stop until I finish this damn thing.
The original target count was 50K, but now, in the post-Ironman I-can-do-anything glow, I’m going to push that target farther out. One hundred thousand words by Christmas Eve, 2008. Look up and reach, dammit. Now, get writing.
Also: should know if I’m going to Clarion by Sunday. Keep your toes crossed.
*It was either this bit (which, thanks to the Googles, I finally know is from Act III of Lady Windemere’s Fan. Context matters, people) or Browning’s “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”