The Naked and the Foggy

I think there should be a rule. A novelist shouldn't be allowed to write a book that exceeds 700 pages in which he (or she, but we're talking here about a he) writes with straightforward plot development, plot advancement, then, 400 pages in, decides he's going to give the backstory of about a dozen characters, breaking up the backstories to inch along the plot in 2 or 3 page doses.

If I haven't figured out the psychological composition of a character after 400 pages, then who cares? Norman Mailer, I'm talking to you.

That said, I finally passed through the belly of "The Naked and the Dead" last night. Upon entering what might best be described as the bowels, I grew tired and went to sleep.

Which brings me to today. Today it was foggy as I rode my bike in to the office. It was almost misting, but not quite. It's strange. We've been here over 2 months, and still it hasn't rained once. Even the fog is funny. It's foggy to the extent that you can't see the tops of hills, but never so thick that you can't see across the street, at least not where we go.

So it's not a drought, nothing's dry, because the fog keeps things wet. I read that that's how the redwoods grew so tall -- the fog gets moisture to the tops.

But now the sun's out downtown (though still not in our neighborhood). The great part is that I've yet to have to worry about riding in the rain. I think that's coming. But when that arrives, I may just hunker down on the train with another massive novel and wait things out.