Ok, you are now officially my favorite, not because you made a portmanteau of my name and achievements — which I think I should throw in the face of some of my less favorite professors, because SUCK IT! — but because you have not yet once failed to make me giggle, and I am not a giggler.

YES I WILL READ YOUR BOOK! In any form, shitty or not. All thirty bazillion words of it. The most words I’ve ever written in one piece is about…50k. So…holy mother of crap. And yes, obviously when you feel like the time is right, but I will read it in any stage of shitdom. For reals.

And then, you asked like, all the questions that are Why This Book Will Be The Death of Me. I have two characters that I know of, definitely. They are both borne of consciousness — sorta like muses, except that they exist because of our potential, rather than to inspire it. One is the positive side of that; the other, oh-so-predictably, is the negative. And they’re evolving with each step we take in one direction or the other. You ever hear the story of the wolves that’s usually attributed to the Cherokee? There are two wolves fighting inside you, one anger, greed, etc; the other kindness, empathy, etc. When asked which wolf wins, the elder replies, the one you feed. So…similarly, my non-muses thrive or die on the actions of humans — all of us. They’re like…the metaphysical version of face book’s “trending stories” ticker. But their perspective is, like Billy Pilgrim, unstuck in time — they are aware of each and every step, all of our creations and destruction, all at once.

I have no idea how to tell the story this way and I might have to suck it up and make them fricken muses which will piss me right off. Or perhaps, magically, Ayn Rand will swoop in and provide the answer? That’s so like her. ::snarf::

(The original idea was something academicky about hidden assumptions, the inherent divinity of the human brain and its unlimited potential, some cognitive science/philosophy/psychology/sociology stuff, all seated in some analysis of historical events that exemplify how and why we continually seem to fuck everything up so gloriously, in spite of our ability to just stop. doing. that.)

Also, I have never said this all to another human being that isn’t my mother or my girlfriend, and now you’ve tricked me into posting it all publicly. You demon, you.

And finally: endometriosis and alcohol, sadly, do not get along. So I feel all gross and crappy when I drink anything more potent than like, a wine cooler. Which is just…fricken sad, really. And also, I mean, if I’m gonna be A WRITER (I’m not, but still…) aren’t I supposed to sit in a mess of books and papers chain smoking and drinking whiskey?? AREN’T I!?

I hope your gin-soaked dreams are full of answers to your questions…so that you can get back to me and maybe I can write more than twenty pages of this damned thing!