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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. An exhibit from which Mom excused herself early, overwhelmed with sheer exhaustion and heat of the crowded area, and Jen seemed to barely tolerate the admittedly gruesome displays. I would have spent more time there, but it’s not an environment conducive to lingering, despite the expense.

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. News reports have surfaced from every corner of the country lamenting slow markets, double-digit percentage price drops, doubling or tripling of foreclosure rates, etc. So how’d it all happen, and where will it lead the once mighty United States?

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.

“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.

Well, I have finally begun chapter 3 of Rabbit Rue, which I’m beginning to suspect, is coming along much better than I had anticipated. Would you believe I had a dream about this whole thing, or at least a tiny fraction of how it all would end, roughly four years ago? Admittedly I started a book I’ve dubbed The Phase way back in 1999 for a girl I met on the internet, and that got all the way to 50 pages before we broke the whole thing off, since she lived in Alpha, a harrowing 90-mile drive from my residence near Cedar Rapids at the time. This wasn’t intentional, but I’ve re-jiggered the story so it fits the overall mythos of other dreams I’ve had. So you see, Rabbit Rue is only the beginning. I have at least four books, entire books consisting of several hundred pages lined up already, though I only have a vague concept of a conclusion for each. Stephen King admitted he writes this way, so I’m not exactly breaking new ground.