Vast Sucking

I had to get up early to drive the Dufflebag to work. I was deep in sleep and had to claw my way out.

The writing must have depleted seratonin levels in my brain, because I had a rare moment of teenage-girl, every suckitude. My cooking sucks, I thought. I can't even make eggs. My writing sucks. My brain is slow. My car sucks. I quickly noted the pattern and rightly, I think, attributed this to some exhaustion of the mind from the night before.

I made eggs and was humbled. They really were only so-so. When it comes to food, I remain an enthusiastic beginner.

*

To help finish the novel, I cracked open one of the growlers of the bad beer. It was pointless: there was likely more alcohol in cherry cordials. But I wanted something of that theatrical warmth to bring me to the end. This was good, as the only thing preventing me from finishing the novel with a completely clear mind was the strain of working so many hours and so late into the night.

*

I feel better now.

I have rarely looked back at what I've been writing, so I read my own introduction for the first time today. I was scared major gutting would be required, but all I did was tighten the prose and shift a few lines around. I'm satisfied. I can write better than I can sling hash.

Back to work.