How Many Drafts Does It Take Before the Book Is Done?

Q: Preston, you are known for revising a lot. How do you know when you have revised enough?

A: After I revise many times, my mind begins to worry about typos and other errors I may have missed. So I revise some more.

After I revise many more times, my mind says this is great, this is publishable, excellent! But then after a few days I get anxious about how reviewers like the NY Times or Publishers Weekly or even Black Voices and the Feminist Review will feel about the book. I worry that they may not like it because they think that I am saying something or implying something that I am not. So I revise some more.

After I revise many more times, I read the manuscript and my mind says, the book is saying what it has to say. The book is saying what it needs to say. The book is saying what you want it to say, Preston. You've done it, kiddo!

At this point, I cease to be concerned about reviewers because I am no longer concerned about getting a bad review.

This is not to say that I want a bad review, but that a bad review does not matter because the book has been polished to the point where it is taking a stand. Its message is clear--if you dislike it, you are disliking it because you dislike the message not because I have written it so poorly that you miss the message or that you cannot understand the message. I do not write to be loved, necessarily. I write to be understood.


Good Question

Preston

Jesus Can Help

Q:

Andre's letter

My friends are talking about their 401Ks and their retirement savings, and I am thinking I can have $170 in the bank if I don't eat lunch this week.

I am thinking that I will have to work well into my 70s.

I am thinking that I am helpless.

I am thinking that the gambling is killing me--has killed me.

Then I meet a friend who changes the way I think.

His name is Jesus.

Jesus says to me: You have a great job paying you 90K a year, which is a salary in the top 10% of American salaries. You have your health. You have some of your youth left, too. These are the things I have given you to help you survive and thrive and you are worrying about the things you have thrown away and lost. Those things are gone, Andre, because you used to be a fool. Do not think about them anymore. Think on these new things--the sun that rose today, the sweet air you breathe, your job that sustains you. Do not weep over spilled milk--pour yourself a new glass of milk and drink it lustily.

And I say to him: But I have so little and it is so hard.

And he says to me: The devil is a liar. You do not have so little. You have a lot. And it is not hard. It is easy.

And I say to him: There is no cure for this addiction. No matter how hard I try to stay away, I keep going back to the casino. No matter how much I have, or how much I will potentially have, the casino will eventually take it away.

And he says to me: The devil is a liar. The casino will not take it away. The casino has never taken it away. You give it away to the casino.

And I say to him: Either way, it is still gone.

And he says to me: Give your life to me for six months. Just six months. And I shall cure you of your addiction. And I shall fix your financial situation. Do you believe that I can?

And I say to him: I believe.

And he says to me: Then give your life to me.

And I give my life to him.

And I gave my life to him for six months.

Six months later, my addiction was gone.

Six months later, my finances were still dreadful but well on their way to being fixed.

Six months later, I wonder why I ever went to a casino in the first place.

Six months later, I counsel other gamblers who seek a way out.

The way out is Jesus.

Try Jesus.

Give your life to him now.

Andre** W*** B******** (Name Withheld)

_______________

A:Okay, Lord knows I cannot argue against any method that proves to be a successful cure for a gambling addiction. If it works for you, then good--and I have met many former gamblers who got back on the right track after they had turned to God. In fact, there are many times when GA reminds me a whole lot of the churching I used to do when I was a kid. In fact, if you replace the words "higher power" with the word "God," then most 12-step programs sorta kinda look like and act like church. I just wonder what happens to the people of other religions (Jews, Hindus, and Muslims, for example) who want to kick the habit.

So yeah, seek Jesus. Seek anybody who can help you beat this thing.

The Monkey on Our Back

Q:I thoroughly enjoyed the book All or Nothing. I was hesitant at first to read it when I saw what it was about.

I had an ex-husband that took me through the ringer, stealing from me, lying to me etc. as a Gambler will do (I see now from reading this book). I asked God ‘why did Preston pick this book’ and I questioned if I needed to learn something from reading it? Sooooooooooooo, I got into it, and now I’ve got a totally different outlook on addictions in general… I think we all have some sort of addiction; I know mine and I’m working to “get that monkey off my back!”

Thanks for sharing this book with me, it really was an eye opener. I look forward to reading other books written by you.

A: Thank you for these great comments!

As a writer, I feel "worthy" when I sense such a profound grasp of the book and its purpose on the part of my readers.

I don't know about other addicts, but gamblers are some of the nicest people you will ever meet. For many of them, their only flaw is that big, ugly 500 lb monkey on their back. One of the worst things about gambling addiction is how it destroys the lives of these otherwise nice people, and you feel so helpless--like there is nothing you can do to help them.

When I watch movies set in the old west and I see all those casinos, I feel kinda sad for the people who frequented them. It is the same addiction today as it was yesterday.

Only the faces change.

Thanks,

Preston

Are You a Novelist?

Q: Enjoyed Jesus Boy, but all or Nothing is still my favorite. The book is sad but it cracks me up. Now that you have published Jesus Boy, your fifth novel if we count your self-published work, do you consider yourself still a short-story writer who writes novels or are you now a novelist who writes short-stories?

A: All of the above. LOL. Seriously, I still write a geat deal of short stories every year; in fact, I have two collections that I am hoping to shop soon.

Thanks,

Preston

Any Regrets?

Q: You wrote a very funny, very powerful book. As a writer, now that ALL OR NOTHING is in print is there anything you would change or do differently if you had to do it all over again?

A: I love the book just the way it is. Maybe there are some deleted scenes that I would put back in. Actually, one of those deleted scenes became the basis for my erotic short story "THREE KISSES" in the collection MAKING THE HOOK-UP (Cleis Press 2010).

I do have one regret, however. I regret that some people I know have read the book and found it so fascinating that they they claim to have started for the first time in their lives to visit casinos and/or experiment with gambling.

This is not good, and this was not my intent.

Did they somehow miss the cautionary tale that was P's life?

Thanks,

Preston

Writer's Block

Q: Writer's Block . . . blah, blah, blah

A: I've had at least a dozen questions in the last month about writer's block, so it's time to post my official response to it again.

Thanks,

Preston
___________________________

Writer's Block?
The question of writer's block comes up every time I teach a creative writing class, so I'm going to answer it for once and for all.

If you ever get writer's block, do what I do. Go swing a golf club.

Or go watch a movie. Or read a book. Or talk with a friend. Do something. Eat a pizza. Do anything. Just don't worry about writer's block. It goes away eventually, especially since it does not exist in the first place.

Here's the deal. If I commissioned you to write a play about a group of friends united by their love of fried conch, you'd go out and do it because, one, it's a job, and, two, you can write. Piece of cake. Your biggest problem would be doing the research on conch, but the actual writing would be a cinch.

On the other hand, if I commissioned you to go sit down and write a great play and I gave you no further directions, you'd sit on your butt and ponder suicide.

That sitting on your butt and pondering self immolation is what the layman calls writer's block. What do I write? What the heck do I write? My god, I have nothing to write about. My god, nothing is coming out of me. I'm blocked.

No you're not blocked.

Are you deaf? Can you not hear what your inner writer is really saying? I HAVE nothing to write about. Again, there is no such thing as writer's block, but there is such a thing as no assignment.

Writing is a job. Sometimes you have a boss. Sometimes you're self-employed. Either way, you've got lots of work to do. The writer with the boss (journalist, script doctor, ad person, jinglist, jingoist) never has writer's block. Heck, the writer with the boss has too much writing to do.

The self-employed writer, on the other hand, is her own boss, and now I think you see the problem. The self-employed writer has to do TWO jobs: write AND come up with the assignments. When she can't find an assignment, she says she has writer's block. The big lie. That's like a teacher saying he has teacher's block because it's summer and he can't find any kids to teach.

Follow the pen, my brothers and sisters. Follow the pen.

What the self-employed writer has to do, when he can't find an assignment is pick up the pen and write. Just write. It's your job, buddy. So write. Write anything.

"I can't find anything to write about. There is absolutely nothing to write about. The only interesting thing is that story about the dog and the necktie I was putting off to work on over the summer. Actually, that story is pretty good. It kind of reminds me of the way I used to write when . . . ."

And voila! Writer's block is gone, because it never existed.

The other thing you have to remember is that as a self-employed writer, you are not restricted to writing plays--you can write anything. So start following the pen, and maybe it will become an essay, a poem, a page in the journal, some crappy ten pages of ramblings about a mutt and a necktie, a play, a great play, whatever. It doesn't matter because you are your own boss, and thus, the only standard you set for yourself is that you find TRUTH in everything you write.

So . . . if you want to write more and feel less of that thing called writer's block that we both agree does not exist, then you must go out and get yourself a job as a writer (see list above in paragraph 7).

Or give yourself more structure as a
self-employed writer. "I am going to write two pages of dialogue in my new play every day for a month. Then I am going to write a page of synopsis of a future project every night." Then follow your rules. This rigor will work to trick the mind into thinking that you are answering to some boss who requires two pages of this or that each day or she will withhold your paycheck. There are other techniques like that, which you can find in every beginning creative writing textbook.

But, come on, it's all smoke and mirrors, really. You don't need that stuff. Structure. Groannn. Yuck. That's why you're self-employed in the first place! You hate structure. You want the freedom of writing only when it is fresh and original and novel . . . I think the word I'm searching for here is "inspired." You want the freedom to write only when you're inspired. INSPIRATION is your boss. INSPIRATION tells you what assignments to work on.

But sometimes when you sit around waiting for inspiration, you kinda feel like nothing will ever come. You kinda feel like you have writer's block. Here we go again.

Your problem is you want to have your cake and eat it, too. You want brilliant inspiration to flow from your pen, but you're too lazy to treat writing like a job and do it every day so that you get better at it and better at it until every time you pick up your pen the muses obey YOUR commands.

You want to spend months away from writing while you PLAY AT being a writer, in your smoking jacket, at those chic gatherings, where all the cool writers who, like you, have mastered the "writer's look" hang out--and then, finally, when all the parties have ended, you, with your writing muscles flabby from disuse, expect to just sit down and demand brilliance to flow.

Then when, surprise, surprise, it does not come, you claim writer's block.

That's not the way it's done, my brothers and sisters. If you want to be a writer, you'd better pick up that pen.

Every day.

And enjoy the pizza

--Preston L. Allen,

An Insightful Review from Craven Rock at Good Reads.com

I ran across this review of the book on Good Reads. It was so dead on it gave me chills. It kinda took me back to the zone I was in when I wrote the book. That was a black period in my life.

Thanks,

Preston

____________________________________________________________

Craven Rock from Good Reads April 9, 2010


Great fast-paced story of a compulsive gambler. It reads as quickly as a Palahniuk except the author is able to create a really solid fleshed-out character and doesn't have to rely on fun facts to distract you from that. I must note that the pacing is also the only real comparison that can make between the two authors. I couldn't get over the way that the main character, P., was presented, he does a lot of really repulsive things and risks the welfare of his family (eventually losing them) to feed his habit. But still, the reader is unable to condemn, glorify or pity P.. Allen takes you so deep into the character's head and compulsions that it makes you realize that he is neither a monster, nor a folk hero and you find yourself rooting for him on a basic human level.

New York Times Book Review of Jesus Boy

Again I am honored by the Gray Lady.

Thanks,

Preston

__________________________________________

The Ecstasy and the Ecstasy

What is it about church that is so damn sexy? The question has bugged me for a long time. An erotic current runs just below the displays of rectitude and purity, despite the hard pews and organ repertory. I suspect it has to do with the congregants’ concerted effort to suppress carnality in favor of distant heavenly rewards. Denying the flesh only makes it throb harder. It’s tricky to defeat one’s own biology, especially when young. It bubbles up during sermons as eyes and thoughts wander. The nape of a boy’s neck sitting two rows up — that modest strip of naked flesh between hairline and suit jacket — can surprisingly arouse.

Sixteen-year-old Elwyn Parker, the protagonist of Preston L. Allen’s novel “Jesus Boy,” is smitten by something just as banal: the glimpse of a twice-pierced, yet unadorned earlobe. The ear belongs to Elaine Morrisohn, 42, a freshly widowed member of his black community’s church, Our Blessed Redeemer Who Walked Upon the Waters. The widow’s earlobes lend credence to rumors that she lived a life of “singular wickedness” before she accepted the Lord. As Elwyn boasts to his high school principal, in this church “we don’t drink, don’t smoke, and our women don’t wear pants.” Jewelry is forbidden, as is coffee, dancing, secular music and most forms of fun.

But these strictures do nothing to repress the congregation’s primal urges, and generations of illicit sex run through this clever and wide-ranging book in which the flesh always triumphs. “Jesus Boy” could well be titled “Jesus People,” for it is crowded with backsliders, hypocrites, horny preachers and shunned “outside” children. All the furtive copulation makes for a general kinkiness that permeates the sanctuary like cheap aftershave. In one case, a couple decides to stop fornicating and get married — only to discover they are distant relatives.

When Elwyn discovers that the girl for whom he’s harbored a long but chaste crush is pregnant, he turns to the pierced widow to explore his own impulses. He visits her just hours after her husband’s burial — she is still in her funeral dress — to ask about the sins she committed in her former life, and whether she ever feels like “yielding.” She does. And she shows him how.

Surely no one does church sexy like Allen. In his worship services, the Holy Ghost descends on women who collapse in the aisle with “spasming legs” and preachers whip their flocks into orgiastic frenzies. The middle-aged widow gazes soulfully at her teenage lover as he strokes the piano during a hymn, “so tight and so fresh and so full of juice,” and calls out an “orgasm shout” that is lost among the holiness shouts.

These people want ecstasy in heaven and on earth. They may lapse into sin, but they can’t shake religion entirely because it is their identity. They quote the Bible — yea, the King James Version — as they beat each other up. They pray before cheating and raise holy hands in the middle of a seduction. One adulterous couple, knowing their congregation will ostracize them if they go public with their liaison, reach an impasse when it comes to finding a new church. As the man ticks off denominations, the woman finds faults with each. She can’t bear to leave her spiritual home of so many years. “Love will conquer all,” her lover finally reassures her. “Love will find a way.”

“Will it?” she responds.

The sinners here take comfort in the notion that “Christ is married to the backslider,” and will forgive their trespasses “seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22). That’s 490 times, or about one aberration every two months over an 80-year lifespan — not much. Like Ted Haggard-Jim Bakker-Jimmy Swaggart, when their hypocrisy and dirty secrets are revealed, they expect, even demand, forgiveness.

Allen’s writing is by turns solemn and funny. There is a revival scene staged by three ministers — two are African-­American, one white — that is hilarious. As the “Rev’run” struts around the stage in a mint-green double-breasted suit berating the audience, the adulterous Rev. McGowan responds with tears, but the white minister leaps to his feet, slings the Rev’run aside and screams gibberish into the microphone before sprinting down the aisle and out the door. The stunned audience “pondered the role of the white minister,” Allen writes, while the two black preachers wondered who he was; neither had invited him. Was the mystery man speaking in tongues, reacting to the Rev’run’s emotional appeal or exhibiting psychosis? The reader must decide if his behavior is any more schizoid than that of the zealous sinners or sinning zealots who people this book.

Allen’s previous books include “All or Nothing,” a novel about gambling addiction (as this one is about religious addiction) and “Churchboys and Other Sinners,” a story collection in which Elwyn is a recurring character. It would be easy for “Jesus Boy” to become fluffy satire, but Allen keeps his characters real. Elwyn, who once aspired to become “a beacon unto the faithful,” becomes something much more profane. His faith wanes, but he still slips into the pews now and again to get his fix by singing the hymns he’s known since boyhood. He leaves before the sermon begins. There is nostalgia for the simple morality, the fellowship, the promise of celestial rewards. Old habits are hard to break.

by Julia Scheeres

I Am Still Reeling

I am still reeling from the deleted computer files of January 31, 2010 and now something else is happening.

After working on a novel at home for like a week, I emailed it to my AOL account and my GMAIL account. When I went to download the AOL version at work, the attachment disappeared. Weird, I said. Then I went into my GMAIL account to download that version. The file opened fine, but the attachment disappeared.

It was there one second--gone the next.

Then when I went back to GMAIL, the file now appeared as though I had sent it without an attachment.

Weird.

What the heck is going on? Is this some kind of prank virus? It deletes the attachment just before you download it and then it pretends that there was never an attachment in the first place.

Too weird.

I'm going to try it again tonight.

Thanks,

Preston

Garrison Keillor and Stephen King

In one of his books (LAKE WOBEGON DAYS, I think), Garrison Keillor writes about losing during a journey on a train the only existing manuscript of the greatest novel he ever wrote.

Stephen King, in the novel (and film version) of MISERY, has a protagonist whose peculiar idiosyncrasy is that he never makes a back up copy of a completed manuscript; and then, of course, he gets to watch, in misery, ahem, as the sadistic Annie Wilkes destroys that solitary copy of his greatest work before his very eyes.

Indeed, it was a common fear among writers of yore that one might lose the lone existing copy of one's magnum opus.

Ah, the tragedy.

Subsequently, one would sorely tax one's brain to produce a replacement version that would always feel inferior compared to the memory of the brilliantly penned and tragically lost epic. Even if the replacement work when published garnered bucket loads of acclaim and awards, one would always feel that it was not really nearly as good as the one that was lost.

But that was back in the day of pencil and pen and that marvel of technological antiquity, the typewriter. Writers today live in the modern age--the age of the computer with its revolutionary abilities to print flawless copy on a laser printer, send said copy to various remote regions for safekeeping via email, and create infinite back up duplicates of said copy on the computer's hard drive and whatever portable external devices one sees fit to fill with the precious and brilliant literary masterpiece.

That being said, this weekend past I nevertheless lost a precious bit of writing.

I had been laboring with this manuscript for nigh unto three years when finally last Sunday morning around 5:00 a.m. I awakened to find that I knew how to make the story work.

So I rose from my bed, opened the most recent draft of the story, and began to type. I typed until about five in the afternoon--12 solid hours of corrections, additions, cuts, and tweaks.

Just before I took a break, for about an hour I scrolled through the work, smiling as I appraised some of the changes I had made and the new passages I had written.

I saved the document. Then I took a ten minute break.

When I returned to the computer, I noticed immediately that there was no evidence of the manuscript on the desktop, where I had saved it. Not a problem.

I clicked on "recent documents" in the menu, and there was the file. Let's call it "Cop Novel" for sake of clarity.

When I clicked on "Cop Novel," a message came up that read "extension not found," or something like that.

I was confused. Where was this novel that I had worked on all morning? Where were all of the edits, corrections, cuts, and additions I had made?

The only thing that I could find was the old version of "Cop Novel" before my edits of the past half day.

I tried everything that I knew how to do to recover the document, but I produced no results save that annoying message. "Extension not found."

A week of futility followed.

I contacted a friend who always bails me out of computer trouble and he suggested I try the "System Restore" command.

That didn't work.

Another friend loaned me a copy of something called "Undelete-Plus."

That didn't work.

Everyone I contacted suggested something to try, but everything I tried failed.

Nothing worked.

Finally, I decided that my only way out of this is to open the old draft of the novel (before the edits), and wrack my brain to produce a replacement version that will no doubt feel inferior compared to that brilliantly penned and tragically unrecoverable epic I recall with such fondness and awe.

Thanks,

Preston

p.s.

In a way, this might be a good thing. I recall that when I was in college, one of my composition professors had us do an exercise that involved our writing a set of essays, reading them out loud, commenting on them, and then her collecting them and throwing them unceremoniously into the trash. "This weekend," she said, "I want you to write the essay again, but make it better than you did last time."

We groaned as we left the class, but the essays we turned in the next week were brilliant compared to the ones the professor had tossed in the trash. We know this because she hadn't actually discarded them, but had waited until we left the room before retrieving them.

Ultimately she gave back both papers so that we could see the difference between our weak (though beloved) discarded draft, and the much improved draft that we had crafted from memory.

I am heartened by the memory of this exercise.

My Supernatural Novel

I have four questions, actually.

Thanks,

H.W.

Q: I am writing a novel (of a supernatural nature), and I was wondering whether I should use a real place as the setting, or continue with the made-up realistic city that I have been using since the start of the book. I’ve read in various places that it’s best to use a real place, but should I really do that? I created the city in order to create a problem for my protagonist, who is supposed to be struggling a bit with racial issues in her community. She herself is of two ethnicities, Caucasian and Hispanic, and I thought it might be interesting to have her struggle with this fact in her high school and her community. I didn't want to set it in the past, and I didn't want it to be in the countryside or something. So, should I pull a J.K. Rowling, and use my imaginary place?


A: One of the great things about being a writer is that we get to make up worlds that do not but maybe should exist, and truth be told, whether we set our story in a made-up world or right down here on on our good old terra firma, we are creating a new world. At the beginning of my first novel, HOOCHIE MAMA, which is set in Opa-Locka, I posted the disclaimer that pretty much all writers post: "This is a work of fiction and it is set in the Opa-Locka of the writer's mind." You are an extremely creative and inventive person and I, personally, would love to see a book of yours set in a world you created. I think you would be good at it, and furthermore, you would be able to make controversial comments about this present world more honestly through the disguise of that artificial world. Sort of like Gulliver's Travels.

Q: Would it be a good idea to end the novel with a cliff hanger as Tolkien does in The Hobbit?

A: No. Not unless you have a real good reason to do so. People want to read a novel that is a complete work. A sequel is one thing, but to leave parts of it unwritten so that we are forced to buy a second book just to see how the first book ends is blatantly unfair. James Patterson did that in ROSES ARE RED and its follow up book VIOLETS ARE BLUE. I felt deceived as a reader. It felt like a sneaky way to get me to buy two short, incomplete novels, instead of one long complete novel. Furthermore, I don't understand your example. THE HOBBIT is a complete novel and has no cliff hanger at the end. Bilbo has his resolution. The book is done--fini-complete--but the LORD OF THE RINGS: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RINGS is a new story about Bilbo's nephew Frodo and his friends.

Q: Is it okay to stray a bit from traditional lore about supernatural things like werewolves and vampires?

A: By all means, please do. When you use werewolves and vampires, feel free to reinvent the wheel. You don't have to play by rules made up by Anne Rice or Stephenie Meyer or, for that matter, Bram Stoker. I have read books and seen movies about vampires with guns, vampires who live next door, a vampire who is a mafia godfather (who bites all of his underbosses so that he can create an indestructible mafia family), and in a recent film a world run by vampires, in which the humans are the monsters (sort of).

Q: Because it is geared toward a tween/teenage audience, I would like to depict high school as it really is, bullies, taunting, the whole nine yards. Is that okay, or should I make it so that some do not have to relive the horrors of high school?

A: I think the bullying and the taunting will make it more interesting, especially since I get the sense that that is one of the issues you want to explore in the book. Why not make the high school experience as real as possible and then set down a vampire or werewolf or some other supernatural creation of yours in it. Go back and read Stephen King's CHRISTINE and note how real and painful that high school experience is. Then suddenly, a '57 Chevy comes to life.

Good hearing from you H.W., and keep on writing. You've got talent and I can't wait to see what you produce.

Thanks,

Preston

Women in Their Winter Boots

What I like most about South Florida is the women in their winter boots.

When the temperature dips into the sixties--I swear, the sixties--out come the boots.

I am sure this does not happen anywhere else in the country. But down here once the mercury dips to sixty--watch out!

It's ridiculous. Half of them are wearing midriff revealing tops, short-shorts, and winter boots. It's a weird juxtaposition, let me tell you.

Someone should do a photo blog of South Florida women wearing their winter boots in sixty degree weather with the palm trees, the ocean, and Canadian tourists in swimsuits and bikinis in the background. The blog would be sort of like Irwin Shaw's "Girls in Their Summer Dresses," except it would be about boots.

But the boots are quite stylish.

The boots look good without snow.

Thanks,

Preston

I'm Cold

I got up Wednesday morning, and I was cold. Cold!

I have been wearing suits all week because they are the warmest garments I own. Sudden realization. I do not own any winter clothes.

Ponder this: go out and buy a good winter coat and hat for the one or two times in three years that you will wear them. No way, said I.

But the arctic blasts, as they call them, continued to blow and Wednesday morning, in my suit and hat, I was cold. Cold like a South Floridian in 30 degree weather.

Scroll back to Monday. I forgot my watch at home so I took a break from the office and went to the drugstore--hoping to find a cheap timepiece to get me through the day. "No luck," said the manager. "All of our watches were sold as stocking stuffers during Christmas. It's not an item we regularly carry. We might have some in the store again around Valentine's."

No luck with the watch. Not a problem.

And the store was full of scarves, gloves, portable heaters, and warm winter hats. How toasty. LOL.

Oh, I laughed. Yes, I did. Floridians just cannot take a little chill, tittered I. They're selling all of this stuff for 50 degree weather. Hahaha. LOL. Hahaha, laughed I. Oh and by the way, I don't even need a watch. I forgot that I can just use the clock on my iPhone. Hahaha. LOL. Hahaha, I laughed on. Merry, merry me, who flinches not in the chill of 50 degree weather. I laugh out loud at your 50 degrees. Bring it on!

Here it is Thursday morning. I am in the drugstore again. All of the warm clothes have been sold. They are completely out of warm winter caps. They are completely out of portable heaters.

Who's laughing now, funny man?

Not me. I'm freezing. Thirty degrees is too much even for me.

My prospects for survival are not good. They say the chill is going to last through the weekend and I am running out of suits. I think I'm going to head over to the Burlington Coat Factory and pray they've got something warm and toasty in my size.

Thanks,

Preston