It is decided, I am going to finish this fucking thing. I began a novel of sorts about 6 years ago, working on it off and on, in short bursts of forceful prose without hesitation and in long drawn out sessions, over thinking each vowel and consonant, squeezing the life from every comma.
The problem I have had in finishing the novel is that it is written long hand throughout many journals and tattered notebooks. Entire pages are scrawled so sloppily that I can’t make heads or tails of the goddamn thing. I am not entirely sure where one story ends and another begins, where one character exists and another is created, where fiction lives nestled in the safety of paper and ink and my own life creeps in like a mold, slowly polluting the safe world that exists between the pages.
I might disappear for a while. I might lose myself. I might fall into a hole of words and lives that are not mine. But, I will finish this fucking thing.
thepaisleypickle 