my fucking novel

When we first landed here I was afraid that I’d have to start writing my fucking novel again.

I readied for it, of course: all relevant books, papers, and research notes have finally crossed the states to me by car, train, or postal service. As of yesterday I have a filing cabinet with which to organize them, and soon I am likely to begin the delicious process of unpacking and arranging my materials, so as to put the vicious task of actually writing off even further.

But then- ah, blessed fate- I realized that I have an incomplete in my Celebrant course, and can postpone the work for yet another few weeks while I catch up.

Thank fuck.

When I sink into this book, it takes over. It’s difficult to live this book and my life at the same time.

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