After my nearly month long fling, an on again off again affair with words, I am struggling to reach the climax of my novel. I have to wonder if I have been medicated along with my main character, the Prozac of a process dulling my ability to achieve release, the looming deadline tempting me with a case of the fuckits. Go out and enjoy the sunshine, eat brunch, drink wine, watch movies or to hell with it all - binge watch some series on Netflix.
It would appear the critic has spat out her ball-gag and is ranting like a demon in the back of the dimly lit cellar of my mind.
Time to shove that slobbery red rubber globe back in her yaw, tighten the restraints and lock the padded cell door.
36 hour hold starts now.
Long Live the Writers.
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