Please excuse the profanity, but I'm sick of my weakness, sick of procrastinating, sick of dreaming of the day that I'll become a novelist. I'm a writer, true, but I'll never be a novelist if I don't finish a bloody novel.
My boss at work is a business coach, but he's become my life coach of sorts. Truly. And let me tell you how invigorating it is to feel purged. That man has hit the bullseye on several issues, and he's kicked my ass several times in the last few weeks when I complained or made excuses. It hurts, but, man, do I need it.
November is National Write a Novel Month. Not just finish a novel, but write it...like, beginning to end. From scratch. I told him that, and then he asked me, "so, how many novels you working on right now?"
I wish I could accurately describe how sheepish I acted. Safe to say, I was quite sheepish when I replied, "oh, close to fifteen or so."
"And you haven't finished one yet?"
"No."
I'm not quite sure how it happened, but he sort of forced me to promise to finish a novel by the end of the month. If I do it, he's buying Mike and me dinner. If I fail, I have to buy him and his wife dinner at Mr. B's Steakhouse. That's damn expensive! Oh, god, what did I get myself into??!
So, what am I doing? Finishing a goddamn novel. You hear me, world? I'M FINISHING A NOVEL!!!
So leave me the fuck alone while I push this fucker out.
(Not you guys, just...everyone else.)
J
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