New York City is currently the temperature molten lava. Which is fun.
And the Belmont was this weekend. Which was not fun. Or rather it sounded like a lot of fun from the texts I got from all my friends who were there, but I wasn’t with them. My first year living in New York my cousin started talking about this Belmont thing and how we had to go and I didn’t know what on earth he was talking about but I went that first year and absolutely fell in love with the whole day. I’ve been every year since then except for once when I had to be out of town. It’s not that long of a streak, mind you. Seven years. But it means a lot that I stayed home to write this year instead of going to the Belmont.
And, oh, what amazing writing it is. This story has been whooping my ass up and down the block since it started and I’m nowhere near taming it. I have complete and utter faith that somehow, at one o’clock on Thursday afternoon, this story will post. But that’s only because it’s happened like that twenty four times in a row now.
If I didn’t have that as a reference point I’m not sure I’d keep chipping away at this pile of poo.
I wonder if Fitzgerald ever had moments like this.
I wonder if Fitzgerald ever used the word “poo.”