Tuesday, November 27

I've been down to the final strings of the werewolf novel for several days now. The trouble is that it's gun season, and deer hunters are jacked up on high levels of testoterone, hopes to shoot a trophy buck, and enough beer and junk food to give someone high choleterol just by breathing on them.

I dread this time of year. As Thanksgiving approaches, my dread turns into whimpers of despair. My home is overrun with friends and family who are hunters. Men stomp through the house in 2-inch treaded clod hopper boots, trailing enough mud to build another Great Wall of China, and all the water, leaves and sticks to mix the mortar. They consume beer with mass doses of beef stew, beef jerky, vinegar and salt tater chips, pickled eggs, Doritos, and anything else that might calm their pre-hunting jitters.

As this weekend drew to a close, my house and my nostrils had been bombarded with beer-and-junk-food farts that could melt asphalt and peel the paint off of a vehicle from 100 feet away. I've listened to doe and buck grunt calls that sounded like the constipated wails of someone who doesn't understand the concept of fiber, and I have been abused with re-runs of re-runs of Monster Buck videos and DVDs.

This is day 2 of deer season. It ends this weekend. I already warned everyone that this is PMS week and if one more person interrupts my writing to ask me another stupid question such as where are the spoons (Hello? Ever heard of the friggin' silverware drawer???), someone may leave this house with one of their grunt calls stuffed up his ass.

So, after a nice lunch, I plan on returning to the novel in hopes that I can finish it today or tomorrow.

Come on weekend!
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