Rabbit Rue is coming along nicely. I just finished chapter 6, which should conclude around May 9th according to the release schedule. It’s a sad and lonely thing I do here, writing of folly and disdain, loss and grief. I walk the fine line of melodrama, trying not to plunge my characters into laughably trite situations past or present, to keep them believable and alive. Even if I succeed, I fail, for no fiction truly transcends the humanity of real existence, though some say truth is stranger than fiction.

As to where I’ve been, well, my mother was in town starting Saturday the 14th; if only she’d come a day earlier. Stumbling from bed obscenely early, wailing the strained moan of a heavily decomposed zombie, Jen and I readied ourselves for a long weekend of sightseeing and debauchery. Well, not debauchery. Justin graced us with his presence, and we forged ahead to the Museum of Science and Industry to wander aimlessly through its ridiculously vast expanses before finally subjecting ourselves to the macabre display of Body Worlds.

Before I begin this long-winded tirade, please take a few minutes to read this article by Mike Whitney. Go ahead, I’ll wait. Done? First of all, I’d like to mention I believe the article I’ve linked is mostly derivative and alarmist pap, possibly written to scrounge up readership for the Information Clearing House. But the author’s facts are not wrong, if spun wildly for illustrative purposes. After watching housing prices increase at four or five multiples of inflation and salary adjustments for five solid years, it’s readily apparent the trillions of dollars sunk into the morass are essentially forfeit.

And so I’ve written, and scribbled, and scratched, until after nearly a month of this, I’ve produced sixty pages (estimate based on 2kb average per typewritten page) of content spread over four chapters. I say this, having five more outlined and ready, and all the while, the tale weaves itself in my mind, twisting and warping beyond my original conception. Now if only I could get people to read it. I understand the genre of serial fiction is an antiquated and possibly anachronistic partaking, but It’s my chosen medium because it encourages me to keep writing, even when convenience would dictate otherwise.

“Spare some change?” he bleated, “I’m a crackhead.” There he sat, reclining against an abandoned storefront, eyes half open, disinterested. A king’s ransom of steel hoops, iron bars, and truncated clips studded his face, each issuing an individual challenge: call this guy a liar. I laughed heartily, shaking my head at the absurdity. That kid was less than earnest, almost bored, even as he weakly shook a styrofoam cup half-full of change.