1 Year, and 171 Days of Writing a Novel
I have a sinus infection, the antibiotics make my head lost and fuzzy. If I see a thought, and race toward it, it buzzes like a hornet’s nest before disappearing altogether.
I have been sick during this novel probably more times than any other section of my life. It is almost as if I were under attack by external forces: the enemy in my novel is far more powerful than I have written him. perhaps he is trying to kill me. To stop his ending from appearing.
May he die trying, and choke on his own magic fingers. The novel will be finished. Eventually. Certainly not in the haze of spells and sickness my body has so willfully succumbed to. But eventually. Soon.
I know where the treasure is. I know the route out of the cave. You may begin preparations for my victory parade.