Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, July 6, 2019, 1:49 p.m.

I’ve restrung two guitars this week during the time I could spare from work. I also worked on my next novel on consecutive days for the first time in at least six months. Independence Day gave me some time for independence.

I had a few local government meetings to attend. A wreck at 2 in the morning claimed a life. Last night it was raining here, in Detroit where the Red Sox were playing, and in Daytona Beach, where the NASCAR undercard was playing, or, rather, wrecking, out. On the Fourth, the president got discombulated and said the Army regained control of the airports during the Revolutionary War, and confused that war with the one that began in 1812, and blamed it all later on the Teleprompter going out. The Muppets were on one side of the National Mall, and Trump was on the other, and I could only tell one from the other because the Muppets were amusing.

My wi-fi is out, which is the principal reason I am writing this. I’ve reset the modem to no avail, and I’ve learned the best thing to do is wait a while and see if it takes care of itself.

Ross Chastain, the newest tiger unleashed in NASCAR, won a race marred by as many bloopers as Trump’s speech. The Red Sox won once the game in Detroit resumed. They’re still exciting to watch – in almost every game, they either come from behind or blow a lead – but the magic of 2018 is gone. I still watch when I can, often fiddling with photos or writing at the same time, hoping vaguely that I am wrong.

The highlight was Wednesday night’s Riverfront Freedom Festival, held each year in Laurens to ensure further freedom on the Little River. I really enjoy training my camera on little kids running around, making their mamas and daddies uneasy, with snowcones getting spilled by the kids and daddies consuming hot dogs in three bites before they get spilled, too. Free music and fireworks bring the people together, all sizes, ages, genders, races and income levels. I talked about high school football with a deputy, gossiped about local politics with a politician, and snapped away, trying to time the explosions of the fireworks because the lens I needed was back in the truck.

Most of the time, I think of photography as a necessary detriment to my writing, but it’s growing on me. I always enjoyed it when I wasn’t writing, but I’m starting to complement one with the other.

If that high point doesn’t seem that high, well, it was on the banks of a river. Three freight trains came by while I was there.

The local CBS affiliate has been off since a company called NexStar declared its independence from DirecTV on the Fourth of July, too. I’m missing the 3M Open right now. Boston at Detroit is at 4, and it might be timed perfectly for the Monster Cup race in Daytona Beach, which comes on NBC at 7:30. The Twins lead the Rangers, 5-0, in the fifth inning, and the Orioles are ahead of the Blue Jays, 2-0, in the fourth. The Red Sox games is only minutes away.

Meanwhile, I’m on standby, waiting on calls from two beauty queens and a fire chief. Separate stories, mind you.

It’s been the usual blur, just a slightly different one, and undoubtedly difficult to notice from a distance.

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My eighth novel is called Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Lightning in a Bottle is now available in an audio version, narrated by Jay Harper.