Writing: 1,255 words
Ernest Hemingway allegedly said that "there is nothing to writing. All you do," he explained, "is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
I don't own a typewriter. Someday I would like to find an old one just for kicks and grins. And I also don't own a 12-gauge Boss shotgun, because I've just never wanted to kill anything that badly.
Last night, however, I bled. The scene I've been writing for the last three days may have been recently conceived as a part of this novel, but the memories it was born from have been festering for longer than I've been writing this book. Because, to be sure, this most recent sequence is the brutal truth inside my lies. And it was a cathartic, exhausting bloodletting.
But it's out now, and it was worth every bit of misery to get it there. I wrote 1,255 words last night, bringing the total manuscript up to 84,054 words. And Michael is on the road.
In other news: something wicked this way comes.
I don't own a typewriter. Someday I would like to find an old one just for kicks and grins. And I also don't own a 12-gauge Boss shotgun, because I've just never wanted to kill anything that badly.
Last night, however, I bled. The scene I've been writing for the last three days may have been recently conceived as a part of this novel, but the memories it was born from have been festering for longer than I've been writing this book. Because, to be sure, this most recent sequence is the brutal truth inside my lies. And it was a cathartic, exhausting bloodletting.
But it's out now, and it was worth every bit of misery to get it there. I wrote 1,255 words last night, bringing the total manuscript up to 84,054 words. And Michael is on the road.
In other news: something wicked this way comes.