I have a terrible confession to make

Go go go!

 

Dropped into an independent coffee shop/bakery yesterday for breakfast with a friend. Large-ish place with comfy furnishings and plenty of nooks and crannies. It took forever to find a place to sit because of all the fuckin' leeches working on their laptops. Some of them looked like they might have deigned to buy a small water for their seven-hour occupation of a table.

Crepe with eggs was good, though.

 

My mind just exploded.

 

I know. The idea that @SpeedTchr would eat anything other than pancakes with nails in them for breakfast has rocked me.

 

My guess:
Crepe cooked to hard texture somewhere between a fruit roll-up and a brown paper bag.
Eggs cooked to hard consistency of fish-tank gravel.
Whole thing smother in ketchup.

 

Pancakes were at 1 am at IHOP. Ate a 5-stack of buttermilk my usual way -- dry -- and could have put down 10 more if I was in the mood. Long day of work makes pancakes even better.

 

I will tell you, as I sat here in my coffee shop wrestling with the dreaded second chapter—THIS IS WHEN WE GO BACK IN TIME AND START AT THE BEGINNING—that there is no more satisfying feeling for an old-man writer than to cut and paste and saw and chisel and trim and notch and finally feel the feeling you get—that elusive, physical feeling—when you know in your heart that the pieces fit.

19,157 words. A week away from the one-quarter [EDIT: mark]. The sun is shining.

 

THERE HE IS! THERE'S OUR GUY!

 

More ammunition -- I eat pancakes with my hands.
Prisoners shake their heads at my table manners.

 

This quote with this reply attached to it made me laugh like a fucking donkey.

 

I've tried writing in coffee shops. Amazed how loud some of them are.

 

You mean the first quarter? If I remember correctly, you were looking to write 100,000 words? The quarter pole marks the beginning of the final quarter-mile, not the end of the first.

Don't want you to look bad if you ever write about horse racing.