Yesterday, I wrote only 804 words on the first chapter of Cherry Bomb. And it was the most excruciating, tedious sort of writing day. Simple action. Two characters in a cluttered apartment. One on a sofa. One at the door. Someone on the other side of the door, speaking from the other side of the door. The problem of building necessary tension in an
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I don't know anyone who actually likes their job.
There's just this bullshit popular delusion that writers are supposed to love their work.
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If you have the time to come up to Boston for any of these, I am planning on attending several nights, especially this upcoming Friday and Saturday and possibly the two noirs next Tuesday, because I've never seen either one of them.
If you have not, tell me when would be a good week to visit.
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