In my life beyond writing, I'm a rock star. Or at lease a diehard wannabe. For decades, I've been writing songs, singing songs and strumming them on my electrical guitar. This vile conceit ultimately led me to create a home recording studio. At my old crib, the studio was in the garage. In my new, it's in the basement. Where else? Garages and basements are where rock & roll lives. But I mention all this because I've become something of a recording engineer over the years. And having wrecked my voice as a wildly overenthusiastic rock singer, starting at age 12, I occasionally get a call for a certain kind of voiceover work, which I can produce, for a reasonable price, at home. I've done commercials and corporate videos. Recently, I did the new documentary about Creem, the infamous magazine where I used to work. So, when it came time to produce an audiobook of my novel Loudmouth, I could think of no one better to voice or record it than me, myself & I. I'm here to tell you this may have been a grave error, dear reader(s). A bonfire of my vanity. The recording went well enough. Took about two weeks, and the results sound lively, flavorful and authentic -- and deliver exactly the story I hope the paper version can. It turns out, that was the easy part. Now I'm deep into the editing. And, frankly, it's about to kill me. Because those two weeks of recording produced, with all the takes, 40 or more hours of material. I have to, first, sort through all the performances, with all the flubs and false starts (and accompanying computer hiccups), and then do the technical cutting and buffing, before sending it to a real engineer to master. It's due end of July, two weeks from today, and I calculate I'll need another three or four. So, if you wonder where I've been since the last blog post, I'd have to say: in hell, now and for the foreseeable future.