Sunday Is Here

What a week it's been.

What a struggle to produce a measly 5500 words, the total count from my second Debut Dagger entry and my first article for Crimespree. If all goes well, there will be many more for the latter and no more for the former.

But the path of any writer is a weaving one, and I'll cross each bridge as I come to it.

Then I'll look up at the mountain, thinking of how to scale its peak. When I reach the top, in sub-zero temperatures and low air pressure, I will assemble my self-designed spacecraft and tour the solar system.

After finding the universe too small, I'll split into an infinite number of personalities and distribute them throughout the multiverse.

And then it shall be Sunday, and I shall rest once more.

Fuck.

I still have to finish this novel.

But I'm looking forward to it. I am so in love with not going to the office every morning. I wake up at a godly hour, shower only when necessary, and write my ass off while my stomach gets bigger. I write, I break, I write again. Bob Dylan said happiness is when a man wakes up in the morning, spends the day doing what he loves, then goes to sleep at night.

I am happy. For now.

Cue evil laughter. Increase volume of echoes. Fade into reverb-laden mush.

Oh yes, I forgot to thank Christa Miller, Stephen Blackmoore, Steven Torres, John Stickney and Sandra Ruttan for all of their invaluable help during my panicky week of deadlines.

In parting, I now share with you the majesty, the power, the extravagance of ...



... the place I ate laksa at today.