"Even if you insisted on finishing your novel, what for? Novels sit unpublished, or published but unsold, or sold but unread, or read but unreread, lonely on shelves and in drawers and under the legs of wobbly tables. They are like seashells on the beach. Not enough people marvel over them. They pick them up and put them down."
Looking at all the other people who are passing the finish line is putting me in a foul-slash-apathetic state. I aim to write 5000 words today. 1000 done. It'll be a miracle if I finish. I'm trying to be acurate with the symptoms of psychosis but its hard when I have to limit time spent on research to ensure some writing gets done.
I just want this book done with so I can start the next one, the good one.
I had a rather horrific dream last night, about blood leaking from cucumbers and sliced torsos being held together painfully, keeping a person alive and on display while feeding loved ones a blood-infused drink. Other elements which severely disturbed me shall remain unmentioned because they are now material for novel number two (or is it four with the old attempts?).
First step, the ordinary, second step, the extraordinary.
Already looking forward to step three: the leap of faith.
(I have to wonder if I'm making any sense.)