PART XXIX

I have finished my 17th book of fiction entitled The Master. It is my shortest work in terms of pages and reads more like a long prose poem. I didn't expect it to end so abruptly, but that gold vein I was pursuing in the cave that is my mind suddenly stopped. Nevertheless, it left me with a handful of nuggets for which I am grateful.

But size isn't suppose to matter, right? It's the last refuge of consolation for guys with small dicks and gals with wee tits, n'est pas? And Pablo Neruda's Veinte Poemas de Amor y Una Canción Desesperada is no thicker than a comic book, yet it made him famous. (For the record, I'm not comparing myself to Pablo Neruda!)

Alex Macias, who taught art for years at UTB and UTRGV and is currently a painter in residence at the University of Arizona, designed the cover as he has designed the covers for all my books. He is my nephew and he only charges his uncle beers and a plate of wings for his contribution to the cause.

If you could judge a book only by its cover and with his talent, I would be a best seller with a million in my bank account, a second home in Portugal and a third residence in Cuba. But, alas, Brownsville, a jealous lover, won't set me free me. I have no regrets. I made my bed here and Brownsville has been a good and faithful lover.

With my shortest book finished, I have embarked on a literary journey that will result in my longest book. The Coronavirus Chronicles owes its inspiration to the pandemic. Besides a running commentary on the disease and its consequences, this is an open-ended undertaking that will include several genres, varying from poetry to prose, short stories to newspaper articles, random thoughts to humorous anecdotes.

Just like The Master which appeared initially in snippets on my blog, I'm following the same strategy with The Coronavirus Chronicles. To write a book and maintain a blog requires killing two birds with one stone.

As my days grow shorter and an eternal night patiently waits to embrace me, I have to pour everything into this work--the good, the bad and the ugly. There are pieces I won't publish on the blog because they cut too close to the bone and I don't want others bleeding profusely at my expense. And some of my own self-inflicted wounds will have to wait until I unveil the final version.

Nevertheless, few experiences compare to the creative act, whether you're a musician or a painter or any other type of artist. It's the closest one comes to experiencing spirituality without believing in a religion. As to The Master, I will let it speak for itself.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: For Facebook I had to eliminate one story called Strawberries. Since I have no doubts that the prudish censors at FB would suspend me for publishing photos of Michelangelo's David or Canova's Reclining Venus, I fear that the sensuousness of Strawberries would jeopardize my precarious status with FB. Strawberries is one of the most intriguing entries in my opinion of the 32 sketches, but I don't want to fly the envelope only to have FB send me crashing back to earth again. FB has value for me as an outlet. The unedited, unexpurgated and unplugged version of The Master can be read at The McHale Report--themchalereport.blogspot.com)