Ciao from Peaks Island, Maine.

 

I'm recovering from laughing my face off last night at a comedian named Bob Marley, who performed at The Inn on Peaks. He's pretty much a legend up here in New England. I even heard Bill Burr talking about him on the Smartless podcast, which is my guilty pleasure. 

 

Anyway, before I throw something out there that I'm really going to regret, may I share one more story nugget from my family's European journey?

 

Pictured below is the mamma from Osteria della mamma in Sant'Angelo, Ischia. It's now my favorite restaurant on earth. Her brother cooks, but she runs the show. We ate there five times (and it still wasn't enough). 

 

Our first lunch there drove me to tears. Every once in a while, things are just right. The wine, the company, the setting, the weather, the music. And of course, the food. Our table was covered in mouth-watering pasta so al dente it could crack teeth, pizza that rivaled anything on Via Tribunali in Naples, grilled veggies that I still dream about, and insalata caprese that crushed all other capreses ever made, featuring the freshest of fresh mozzarella straight from God's kitchen and tomatoes that would give sight to a blind man. I also had a cut of grilled tuna laid over a bed of onions and Calabrian peppers that made me believe I could fly like Icarus. Okay, maybe the mind-bending local red wine had something to do with my Icarian thoughts. Who knows.

 

The point is that the meal was perfection, and I decided that mamma deserved a hug. I was so swept away by the experience I'd forgotten that I can't speak Italian as I approached her. I opened up my arms to hug her, and her eyes expanded. I'm sure she was thinking: who is this crazy American? Or should I know this man?

 

Nothing was stopping me, though. I gave her a big hug and kissed both cheeks, then started to say that I loved the food, and that's when I realized I can't speak Italian. As I let her go, we simply stared at each other as I fumbled through professing my love in English and Spanish, two languages she definitely does not speak. My orgiastic culinary daydream grew slightly uncomfortable, but then my wife, who was still seated at the table, saved the day. (She saves all the days.)

 

Mikella speaks Italian and called out across the restaurant that I was taken aback by the experience and that it was now my favorite restaurant in the world. 

 

Take a look at that picture again. Once mamma realized why the crazy American had hugged her, she lit up like Mount Vesuvius, joyful eyes the size of mozzarella balls, a spaghetti-length smile stretching across her face. I'll never forget it. That's a woman who is doing exactly what she was put on this planet to do. If only all of us could realize our potential in such a way.

 

So what's the dumb thing I'm about to do? (Other than sending this newsletter when I should be working on my book.) I started talking about this on Facebook and Instagram, but I thought I'd bring in those of you who aren't there. 

 

I'm under a serious deadline. Though I'd set out to make my work-in-progress set in Italy somewhat easy, it's turned out to be my toughest book to tackle since The Singing Trees, so I'm way behind. The deadline is August 11th for when I turn it into my developmental editor. After tons of editing, deleting, reworking, I have 84k words that are somewhat getting there, but I'm a long way from the end. It's likely going to climb north of 130k by the end, damn near Ken Follett territory. That means I have to write 3-4k a day in order to reach the end and have time to read through and give it a polish. For those who don't write, that's A LOT of words.

But I can't miss my deadline. I just can't. It'll delay the release, break my heart, and disappoint my agent. Also, my parents are coming a few days after, and I've promised them a sane version of their son. 

 

 

If you knew how hard it is for me to write 50k and polish it in twenty-five days, you'd see how dumb this promise is. If you could slip into my skin and get a taste for what this book is doing to me, how writing it is like climbing into the ring with Mike Tyson every morning, then you might even feel some pity for me. But I'm not looking for pity. For some wild reason, I actually thrive under deadlines, and if I've set up the first chunk well, then the rest of the book SHOULD race toward climax. Honestly, it's so much fun to immerse myself so deeply into a story.

 

So there you go. Keep following to see how hard I fall on my face, or if I'm able to pull off a miracle. Feel free to send encouragement, a funny story or meme, a book recommendation. Or, since I thrive in adversity and have oppositional defiant disorder, tell me I can't do it, that it's not possible.

P.S. Please forgive me if I don't respond to your emails. Know that I joyfully read each one. In fact, your notes keep me going. It's just that I best put my energy into meeting the next deadline. Thanks for understanding.

Catch up on old newsletters here.