The End Of A Novel

After 30 days, gallons of coffee, pounds of extra dark chocolate, a miserable case of the ickle blortch, and a few brief, miserable periods where I couldn’t bear to think about anything with syllables, let alone plot significance, I’m done.

I wrote 50,000 words in 30 days while trying to find work (in vain) trying to find an apartment (in vain) and trying to figure out what the heck I was writing about (also mostly in vain). Then I took the next two weeks to extremely pointedly not writing anything at all. That didn’t work out so well when I realized lots of places like cover letters along with the barrage of CV’s. And now I’m back.

As always, I’m breathlessly preparing for my next adventure: Ghana (or: place least likely to attract tourists of any I’ve ever tried to get to).

For once, I don’t feel that crazy pull to get on the road again. I’m sure it won’t last long, but with all the no-job stress and the living-with-my-parents stress, I don’t need another thing meddling with my psyche.

It’s time for eggnog, shopping, and snowman earrings. I’ll worry about it in the New Year.

One Response to “The End Of A Novel”
  1. eggnog with spiced silver rum will be happening here soon. wanna come?

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