Last night a man who is a website supporter met me at a diner at Colfax and Syracuse in Denver. He is a kind man who came bearing a tactical pen, two books for me to sign, The Logic of Force and When You’re Food and bought me a meal. He requested anonymity, so elements of a life I found more interesting than he did, will not find its way into this journal. He did give me license to employ him as a character in fiction. We stayed up until late morning speaking of varied things and he then brought me back to Zeer’s place.

This hoboing hoodrat, writing weird tales and investigating the weirder reality of 2022 America, must protect the identity of a reader, in a world where such a younger man in his peak earning season in the world of money cycles, could lose everything simply for the crime of reading my minor musings; where reading an attempt at truth seeking [accurate of off-base] could bring an economic sentence of death for the ownership of a few paperback books written some 20 years ago.

Here, with Zeer off to work on his bicycle, this writing experiment needs to die so I can start writing Ranger?

Yesterday was the most productive writing day of 2022. below is my writing log for yesterday:

“-4. 1039, 1764, eye seizure, coffee, 1119, went to the diner for breakfast and to the liquor store for beer and whiskey, 1179, 614, 1009, eye popping, Zeer is home, time to box, 875, meet a reader for dinner”

That is 7 chapters for 7,599 words.

Today I complete this book, buy milk at the gas station, have coffee at the diner while answering texts, wash clothes, box with Zeer, have dinner with him and drink some beer.

Tomorrow I will read the elements of Sorcerer! necessary to start writing the sequel, frame the front matter, pack, have lunch at the diner, and when Zeer comes home he will drive me to the light rail stop at 5:30, for a train that should head to Chicago at 7:10 but probably 7:30.

I lack confidence for my return east. Mom is really missing me and I’ve left a lonely girl in my wake on the other side of the massive mountains that loom here at the grassland’s edge. Last night a kind man offered my clothes, coat, boots and lodging. I left with a bottle of Remy Martin and a book from Jon Grace, both of which, will be left, one empty, one full, with Paul and his Woman, a lady unmet who has inquired as to my dietary, desk, bed and lighting preferences, and has already made a clod of a little boy become an odd old man, welcome.

Never did I imagine that attempting to learn how to write in apemanship of my literary betters, as a salve to the blind strokes laid on by the miserable hands of an uncaring world, might result in a fall into such caring hands.

-James, 9:46 A.M., Tuesday, April 5, 2022

…

The length of this book, begun five weeks ago, is: 40,772 words.

Articles I have yet to post online, stored by various means are:

52 in number, to be scheduled on the main site from early June through early August. I have bought a few months to write fiction, with history written between novels.