Update: I am not dead.

I am, however, a novelist. Maybe not in the “published author” sense, but since I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for three days doubting all the life choices that led to this and giving myself osteoporosis with Diet Coke, I figure no one’s going to argue with me.

Holy crap, it was exhausting. But also invigorating. I think I broke my liver.

I just finished my final edit, gave the thing a name, and closed the document. It’s over, I’m done. And I really like it, which is a good sign, even though parts are rushed and I used more swear words than my mother would approve of and I think every three pages someone cries which is either super dramatic or really, really emo.

We celebrated the end of the thing with a dinner of pork ribs braised in tomato sauce with red wine and rosemary, roasted summer squash, and polenta with basil and Pecorino Romano. It made itself, cooking away for hours in the oven while despair over the ending turned into satisfaction and relief.

I am going to spend all of next week sitting on the couch watching TV with my mouth hanging open.


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