Must get ready for work RIGHT NOW.
No time to write. Ah, but that's where I'm wrong.
I have all of November to write. And screw the whole "write a novel in a month" thing. I am going to write a poem (or two or seven) a day. That's where I'm comfortable (and oh so vulnerable, but in exciting ways). And a novel? My novel would just be poetry anyway. Poetry disguised as pulp.
I'm squeezing out all of the juice. Ninety-nine percent pure, fresh. (But also completely recycled.)