Today, I have had it up to here with my effing novel.
If I was walking down the street and I saw my novel walking toward me, I’d run down an alley and bury myself in a dumpster. I would throw myself under an eighteen wheeler to get away. I would rather be covered in paper cuts than look at it again. Soiled and blood-stained pages would be an improvement. I should be eligible for witness relocation.
From now on, I will no longer claim to have written a novel. It is laughable, moot, a bald-faced lie. From now on, I am simply a mother of two who used to dabble. Because my novel is not a novel at all. It is a pile of 65,620 warped, wobbling, slimy, stinking words.
I’m sorry, words, for making you do that. I promise never to do it again.
(How do you know when the relationship is not working? When is enough, enough? I think if I can’t make this story work, I’ll never be able to make any story work and then I think I sound like one of those battered wives sticking it out with a loser because she’s afraid to admit she made a mistake.)