Rough Rough Draft

I read a book today...yes, today...The Devil All the Time by Donald Ray Pollock.  It was crazy.  His shifts in point of view drove me mad and made me feel like I had ADD.  I don't know if I eventually got use to it, or if the writing evened out.  It is Pulp.  It is good.  I road around backwoods, Appalachian roads, with broken muderous people and whores, and hung out in Florida with a former preacher and his crippled brother turned circus freaks then hobos.  Then there was Willard and his prayers and sacrifices and his boy Arvin and his sick wife.  I liked it.  I read it in one day.  My mom had cataract surgery and I stayed with her to help her recoup.  She slept and I read.  My own unfinished pieces were calling me and I ignored them.  Instead I read and registered for the GRE.  Finally, I opened my laptop and read through my unfinished CNF piece.  My fingers began clicking the keys.  I didn't stop until it was done.  I have finished the first draft.  It is rough in places and needs some help.  After reading about all those broken characters and their broken lives, I felt just enough pain to write about my own.  I let go of existential lyrical stylings and wrote the damn story.  I liked The Devil All the Time.  There was no philosophical exposition about each character.  No looking beneathe the surface, yet it was there, revealed through the actions and backstory.  It made me think about all the intellectual conversations I have had.  How pointless it really was.  I can ramble on about this or that and my feelings and this great work of art or novel, and try to pin point who I am and what makes me,well, me.  But really, do I know?  I write.  I hang out with friends.  I like intimacy.  I want to make good grades and go to grad school.  I will be 35 next week and was told, this past Tuesday, that I am not ovulating as often anymore and that I have a tilted uterus.  I rather just tell the story...there is depth in the story.  No explanations.  Well, if you know me, it now makes sense why I don't like those Ode to the Uterus poems or motherhood/blood=eternity poems.  I don't have to try and figure it out.  The doctor gave me facts and there was the answer.  So....my rough draft is done.  Now comes the editing...the adding and subtracting.  And I think I am going to keep reading Pulp, for a little while.  The characters are far more interesting.
There is pretty lyrical writing in the piece but I am going to share a short funny excerpt from "All the Pretty Queens":

 Bob came and got me with strict orders from my mom to take me to my grandma’s.  My grandma was crazy and racist and liked to talk bad about family members to me.  Bob had tried to convince my mom to let him take me home.  “Sorry kid.  I tried."
             "No! Mimi is crazy.  She will talk about sex and call everyone whores!”

             He laughed and said “Just tell her- Mimi, I am dogging the whole football team and my favorite is the boy who is black as the ace of spades.”