104 pages, 1 year, too much caffiene, too much heartbreak
I admit to being a dreamer. With a nasty streak of course.
People dream of cures for cancer, the end of fossil fuels, and world peace.
I dream of cartons of marlboros in the back seat of a missile and machine gun equipped hummer.
And ponies. I want a pony.
I’ve been bad though for the past month, I haven’t touched my novel in progress for that long. I guess work has been tough on lots of different levels, then heart-o-darkness has been grabbing my attention like no ones business.
Oh good work on the moped btw (I say in sarcasm)
Oh then there was Bioshock. And I can’t be blamed for that can I?
I mean beating some deformed freaks with a wrench is just good fun.
So I finally decided enough is enough, I’m going to work on my fuckin’ novel if it kills me.
I print it out all 104 pages, and I hate it. I really fucking hate it. It doesn’t feel like it’s me for the most part.
It feels like…
The goddamn workshop people got in my head when I was working on it. The parts I really like the most are the parts that I actually wrote without them, FUCK!
Well It’s not over yet is it. Keep writing edit later.
