Viva La Undead

Day 8- Accomplishing anything is satisfying. It's like beating a raccoon to death with a croquet mallet. You're tired, sweaty and there's blood all over your hands but in the end there is a profound sense of accomplishment, you have done something worthwhile and, dare I say it, beautiful. When you can actually write a few pages that doesn't make you want to vomit when you re-read it, you feel a beatific sense of calm override your body. As a man I will not give birth to a child. Probably. But it is possible to finish a zombie book. I am several thousand words behind quota and the bits I have ( journeying to the airport with a suicidal taxi driver, bizarre scientific experiments, two guys sharing the same name having a duel over a restaurant booking mishap, a retirement home rife with the living dead) seem very disjointed and not heading anywhere but with a little bit of light editing I can make it seem.....less amateurish.

Day 9- Lunch with Free Beer. ' How's your zombie thing going?' he asks, popping a gnocchi into his mouth.
' Woefully. It's amateur. Pure bush league. Re-reading what I've written makes me want to vomit.' He moves his plate away from me. He suggests I might set it somewhere interesting, perhaps New Orleans? I tell him it's too soon. Thought provoking New Orleans survival stories will dominate for awhile. People may get the wrong impression and think I'm taking the piss. ' Besides I'm trudging along with it. I thought a court scene would make a cool intermission. There's an insurance debate that rages over whether the zombies are man made ( from either a disgruntled Haitian witch doctor who places a voodoo curse on everyone who takes his car spot or a crazy Nazi experiment that, surprise, surprise, goes awry) or an act of God ( meteors) and who is liable for the damages incurred.'
' You should also have an old guy in it who has lived through a previous zombie invasion.' says Free Beer.
' His name should be Lucky. He's like " Zombies huh? That reminds this old sea dog of the zombie plague of 1922. Time to bring out ' Betsy' once again."'
' Betsy is his trusty rocket launcher.'
'...or flame thrower.'

A flame-thrower toting old guy, Nazis, zombies and cowboys from the 1870's. And the only thing that could possibly bring it all together: Time travel. Brilliant. Now to get Bruckheimer on the phone and sign me a movie deal.

Kind of like Gandhi, only Fatter,
Fatman