And so I’ve written, and scribbled, and scratched, until after nearly a month of this, I’ve produced sixty pages (estimate based on 2kb average per typewritten page) of content spread over four chapters. I say this, having five more outlined and ready, and all the while, the tale weaves itself in my mind, twisting and warping beyond my original conception.

Now if only I could get people to read it. I understand the genre of serial fiction is an antiquated and possibly anachronistic partaking, but It’s my chosen medium because it encourages me to keep writing, even when convenience would dictate otherwise. But every time I really get into the groove, the pages write themselves. The fact of the matter is I need to start working on the outline again, as I’m threatening to catch up, which could make future writing rather difficult.

If only there were a way to quit my job and continue working on the story 100% of the time. I want to do more, but time is limited when 8 hours per day are devoted to babysitting a series of unruly databases, and carting data ’round like a glorified rickshaw.

Until Tomorrow

Go Eat Worms

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