novel

How many posts is this today? Five? Seventeen? Two? I think it's two, but it could very well be three. Speaking of three, I am going to write three novels. THAT IS A LIE (for now). I am only writing one novel. Over and over again I hear the advice to not tell anyone you are writing a novel. Well, whatever. I've never been one to always follow advice. That being said, forget that I've told you I am writing a novel. Please don't ask me about it all the time -- assuming you are wildly interested in every detail of my life -- and do not ask if you can read it. You cannot. Not until it is on at least its second draft. Yes, there will be multiple drafts, something I never thought I'd do. Maybe the fact that I very rarely revise is the reason why, so far, I have produced no novels. Or short stories. Or poems "of worth" in at least five years. Perfectionism is the perfect plug on creativity.

But enough about the novel! I haven't even revealed anything about said novel, mostly because I currently have no clue where it will go or what it is or if it will even be considered a novel. It might be more of a menu. A menu for LIFE and LOVE and TRAGEDY and, yes, even COMEDY. Seriously, though, enough about the novel, more about the biggest surprise in the world -- THE RETURN OF MY DESIRE TO WRITE. And the desire is stronger than my coffee (and today's coffee was wheeeeeee). To be honest, this immense desire sorta freaks me out. I'm also slightly worried that it could be a fluke. Don't let it be a fluke. I will give my right arm to let it not be a fluke. No, not my right arm. My left. I am right handed and, well, I need that arm in order to write my (plug your ears) novel.

Blogging is writing, sure, but this post right now is just distracting me from actually writing my top secret novel-like thing... So excuse me. I must go. I will be back because no one, not even people intent on ruining my name (long story), will keep me from blogging in this incredibly small corner of the Internet. But for now? Now I will disappear into a world entirely of my own creation. Man. Writers are delusional. Perfect.