For the last couple of weeks, I've been worried that I wasn't driven enough. I wasn't writing anything, VH1 stopped asking if they could do one of their craptacular documentaries on me, and my chauffeur wouldn't take my calls.
The thing is, writers shouldn't be driven, they should be driving. So I have been.
Last week, I drove Zuzu to Worcester, got home and scribbled down a few things that I didn't like, but I was at least scribbling.
This morning, I decided I needed new reading material, and I had a $50 gift certificate to The More Than Words bookstore. So I went to the terrible mbta website, and they told me how many kajillions of buses it would take me to get from where I was to where I wanted to be.
I sighed, and decided I'd just stop in at the comic book store, buy a trade paperback, and cry myself to shame...err, sleep.
How do you know you've spent too much time and money in your local comic book store? When you lament not knowing how to get somewhere by bus, and the owner gives you the keys to her van.
So, in the blinding snow, I drove to the book store, and now have so many many many many books. So. Many. And I drove back to the store, dropped off the van, and the keys, and went home. And now I have three full chapters of Let Lie The Dogs of Rock & Roll written, as well as a new poem for tonight's Hootenanny.
I mean, I've got drive like Ric Ocasek, like Tiger Woods at the tee, like the first syllable of the fictional group that sings "You All Everybody". Drive like the first single off of REM's Automatic For The People.
That said, I must now take the bus back home.