Which, a quick sort-of breakdown:
–Flushboy‘s what I wrote when my wife said I never write any love stories. It’s this kid, pretty much indentured into working the drive-through window at his father’s Bladder Hut, a drive-through urinal. Or, it’s him, growing into himself, becoming who he already is. Okay, okay: he’s me, when I was seventeen. Or maybe he’s all of us. I hope he’s all of us anyway, or else I’m all alone again, wearing my rubber gloves and diving mask behind that sliding window, waiting for these bank tubes of warm urine to splash my way. Just waiting to fall in love, with anything, with everyone.
—Not for Nothing‘s one of those books I’ve written from scratch all over again. Which is to say I wrote it once, dug it, but thought I could do better, so scrapped it, started over from nothing, then hated that version, so started all over again again, and this time did it right, I think. The trick was — well, two things: first, setting in a place so, so real to me — Stanton, Texas, where I did most of my growing up; second, as it was a private-eye story, all gruff and faux-noir, second person was finally the only voice that could deliver that for me. But, the story itself: Nicholas Bruiseman, ousted big city homicide detective, is forced to come home, ride his banishment out in the least likely place, where every step he takes is deeper into a case he never wanted any part of. To figure out the present he’s going to have to crack into the past, which he’s been running from all these years.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here eating shaved coconut and chocolate morsels, drinking tea, listening to Faster Pussycat, and, yep: writing.