It Had Better Be A Good Writing Night

After a long celebration of National Leftovers Day with two familial clusters, I am finally about to start my work day. I mean to get two thousand words out, despite my turkey-induced tryptophan haze. It's been a lovely holiday, but I'm a bit annoyed at myself that, as I sit here, I'm 7K behind.

One of the great pleasures of this Thanksgiving is that Dan's cousin tokeiwakamidesu, my favorite in-law, is crashing with Dan's parents, too. After yesterday's turkey binge, he and I sat beached in the living room, intending to write. He's working on a paper about some Roman poet I'd never heard of, and I'm working on a novel about international crises in countries that don't exist. It's very important work. Honest, it is. Anyhow, being a big fan of the bizarre funerary customs in the Big Book, tokeiwakamidesu badgered me into describing the bizarre wedding customs in the Little Book. "That's very Sondheim, in a way I can't quantify," he said. And, after a long pause, he added, "You're going to put that on your book cover as a blurb, right? Unquantifiably Sondheim?"

It might not be as straightforward as calling a book unputdownable or compulsively readable, but it would have the advantage of not being a blurb cliche.

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