Coach Puse Albertvill Outlet

Before going to sleep

spend a few minutes of the two-thirty in the morning. I do not usually write at night. I know that seems most appropriate, most picturesque, but after working all day, not only am I tired of being at the computer, but also the evening is the only time I have to be with sempie to comment on our journey and, ultimately, to share a little of life.

Today, however, I wanted to stay and write at night.

As I think I said in the previous entry, or at least pointed out, had planned to park the novel that was working, The Ballad of Sam, that I had led, among other things, get my love for the six strings. I had to leave a couple of months ago to dress up the book I hope to see published in the fall, the mystery novel The Feast of Orpheus . And two months is too long, at least for me and for this story.

Regulars to the blog you know that worked for impulse-based setting, de clima, y cuando el feeling se rompe, como diría el amigo Frankie (Sinatra, of course), la cosa se fastidia.

Así que me planteé aplazar esta novela. Dejarla ahí, en reposo, en una carpeta del ordenador, mientras me dedicaba a alguna otra historia más ágil y entretenida, pues La balada de Sam comenzó como eso que llaman "obra de madurez" y llegué a alcanzar un punto en el que me asustaba madurar tanto.

Pero en los últimos días de retiro y reflexión retomé el texto Releí algunos pasajes y no pude resistirme a continuar escribiendo. Eso es bueno, dirá alguno. Tal vez. Más me vale. En este momento of the plot I'm in a Mexican hacienda, east of the city of Chihuahua, recalling an old man with eighty-five years a crime that occurred in the same place thirty-two years ago, during the filming of the movie's most famous Sam Lonergan (aka Sam Peckinpah, or is it vice versa?). The evening wind blows and brings the scent of juniper and other shrubs of the plain. The old man wants me to stay and hear you, but I have a dream, I'm tired.

the other side of the screen, sempie sleeps with the little light on my side of the bed on, waiting for me. Some mosquitoes crackle when approaching Lamap bulb at my back, and liquor was Sierra Tequila watered down by the ice earlier in the almost empty glass next to my keyboard.

It's time to rest.

I leave with Sam Peckinpah and the trailer for Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia , a story that has nothing to do with my novel, a film that is their spiritual source.