I spent a good portion of the day doing yard work and than watching a couple episodes of The Wire but once I buckled down, the writing flowed fairly smoothly. I'm currently at 19,115 words. I'm not as worried that the plot doesn't have enough legs to make it to the 75k-80k sweet spot but it's still something of a concern. Overall, I'm quite pleased so far.
Once I finish The Nature of the Beast, the current plan is to finish the second draft of the other Jack Whitlock novel, Between Hell and a Hard Place, and bring it into line with this one.
Daryl Patterson's living room was all paneling and threadbare shag carpet. The furnishings included a beat up couch that was at least forty years old, upholstered in a hideous brown-orange woodland pattern, a matching recliner whose footrest seemed to be stuck in the up position, a wooden spool serving as a coffee table, and a large console TV serving as a stand for a smaller flat screen TV.
“Have a seat,” Daryl said and disappeared into the next room. I decided to take my chances and sat on the couch. It was almost as uncomfortable as I imagined. From the other room, I heard a refrigerator open, accompanied by the unmistakeable sound of a beer can being opened.
“Too early for beer?” he asked.
“Not if you're having one,” I said.
He came back into the living room and pressed a Miller High Life tallboy into my hand.
“This shit right here is the breakfast of champions,” he said.
I took a pull and nodded. “They don't call it the Champagne of Beers for nothing,” I said.