It's a strange thing to write a book. I can't speak for anyone else, but in my own case, it has been the experience of extreme tunnel-vision. Beer, beer, beer, beer. I dream in beer. Someone will mention something and I think: that reminds me of [some story about beer]. I do my very best to remind myself that this is an interior experience, and that to everyone else these matters are of (rightly) little import. It will be fascinating to emerge on May 2 from this weird cocoon, blinking in the sunlight, and be out of a job. From incredible tunnel-vision to unemployment. What whiplash that will be. I'm trying to let that future self remind present self that he's got a great job and he should enjoy himself.
The bad news is that Workman has slated the publication for Fall 2014. Talk about delayed gratification. I guess we'll all be waiting a good long time for it to ripen, like Budvar. Anyway, 200,000 words, fifty days--these are the relevant numbers of the moment. Back to my hole.