Randomness

It's only three days away from when I wanted to have the book published. I figured since I had it done in November, I could easily have it done by March. Why not? I mean, c'mon, I've done this before. Nope.

Sorry kids, but it's going to take a few more months. It would be worse off to crank out a piece of crap, when I can refine it into a nice gleaming turd.

Still, I'm elbow deep in my story, digging through like removing innards on a cadaver.

I can feel the heart. It's the story itself. The things I want to say. It beats.

The lungs move slowly, almost like they're drowning. It's my words. Using the right language that my narrator, a sophomore in college would use. Too often, he's speaking in ways only academics do. The unncessary weight is making it hard for my story to breathe.

The liver is hard. Too much getting drunk on what's not important. A scene is cut, dialogue is completely removed. I laugh at myself, thinking, "When did I actually think this part was good?"

My delete key is the scalpel. Still, I go through cutting out the stored fat that keeps my story from being alive and healthy. Soon I'll have to pack everthing back inside, sew it up and throw a nice suit on it. It will be time to show my Frankenstein off.