Proust
Just finishing us Proust’s Swann’s Way at Edwin’s, the coffeeshop I hang out at in Rocklin. 600 pages of very slow, very French ponderance. Reminds me of my own propensity to not move the plot forward and is a good object lesson for this novel I’m embroiled in writing. For whatever reason I get completely wrapped up into internal states and tend to forget about moving the actual story forward. That’s more or less how I operate as a human being, I think.
Guy at the next table talks non-stop about being in some minor band for a decade. Just keeps going. New girl who works here always looks a bit confused.
In case you find yourself wanting to ponder some interesting solo guitar music over your winter season, look no further than my frequent collaborator and friend Jefferson Pitcher’s Sunday Sessions.
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