5 a.m.

I started writing late last night around 1 a.m., had an idea, and being tired and stupid, I was fairly certain that I was writing rubbish. When I looked at the computer clock, it said 5 a.m. and I was trembling from too much pot, too much sugar, and far too many cigarettes. I got into bed fully dressed, cold and shaky, coughing feebly.

 

I woke up at 11 or so, still gasping for air, had to spit and cough. Old, badly behaved men are fragile. Then I read it. Oh my fucking god. And I knew how to end it, so I did that. Read it for typos, mystified, couldn't hardly believe it, broke into tears of triumph, had to use tissues. A wonderful turning point for my favorite character, a big leap of courage, transformation, and fulfillment. Neatly unanticipated and highly convincing. It could have happened that way.

 

There should be five main characters in a novel or a movie (I have trouble telling them apart because I write cinematically, see the scenes play, try to capture it in literature that's good enough to read and realize what I saw.) Anyway, five main characters. There can be another dozen supporting roles, named characters who we know quite a bit about and care about, plus a couple of villains because men are not angels, and some are less angelic than most. The very worst are demagogues on a mission to convince everyone to march in lockstep or to kneel in supplication.

 

Five main characters. If one of them changes, it tilts the pinball of destiny.

 

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