He's a belligerent alcoholic. He thinks everyone owes him something. And the last thing you want to do is ever ever piss him off. He'll make it his mission to grind you into the dirt; bleed shit and piss all over you doing it too.

I think I'm beginning to understand Bobby.

Listening to Tom Wait's Heart of Saturday Night. It and a warm bottle of spiced rum or tequila would so hit the spot for me right now. I feel like crawling into Bobby, into someone wounded, someone vengeful and someone who just wants to wrench all the world in his teeth.

I'm tossing the Balor idea. Too steeped in Celtic, fairy-esque lore as it is. No sense in oversalting. A demon still. But not Balor of the Fomorians.

Balor. I'm considering putting Balor in as the name of the demon who sires Bobby and Kurlos. It certainly has MAJOR Celtic, Shadow Court and mythological connections to evil. Mentioned as demon specifically? No, not that I can find. But he's certainly entrenched in the shadows enough for me to try it. The evil eye thing though... I worry about that schtick. We've already got a pursuing villain with a missing hand, a hero who eventually ends up blind, and to add to that soup a more powerful villain with an evil eye. I dunno. Might be too much spice in the broth.
I realized last night that I'm going to have to write Bobby to his genuine personality. That is to say, a rascist and a misogynist, an asshole who'd rather throw off slurs, snarky insults and a crackshot with his knuckles than any modicum of a rational mind. He thinks blacks are stupid. He thinks women are stupid. He's a homophobe and a bigot of the worst caliber. All of which sounds truer to the character but all of it I'm not looking forward to. Or at least the inner Prufrock/critic in me is not looking forward to.

Fighting the inspiration killers. I don't know where my life is going. But I keep seeking out writing as some sort of deliverer. James says I'm pouring too much of myself into The Wanderer. But I think I'm doing too little. I need to work, actually start the sweat and tears of writing. This little blog will help, I hope. Keep me writing, even if its asinine nonsense and wanky self-exploring about my lack of getting shit done.

It's really a matter of immersion. You have to put your ass in the chair, put your fingers on the keyboard and shut the whole goddamn world off with a flick of a switch or a lock of the door. Paula knew that. I don't have a studio. But I can find isolation to do this where I can. Have to. Have to dammit.

Clarence, you bohemian fucker. Why the hell are you so elusive? Bobby's a bitch of a character to sink my brain in, but you're the worst. Every time I write you, you come across as some black sidekick to Bobby's macho posturing. What's up with that? You might as well fucking tapdance and answer to 'boy'. Christ. What's your bent on this whole adventure? Do something for chrissakes. You worked in a circus. Surely you have something to contribute plot-wise, character-wise, dialogue-wise, goddamn story-wise. Do you drink? Do you have sex with girls? Do you do anything besides slap bongos and act like Maynard fucking Krebs? Speak up, you boozing bastard. Say something before I write you fucking sheep.

Oh yeah. Bobby's in the keys tonight. Mwa ha ha ha ha ha!!! Off to hatefuck the Muse. :)