I wonder how much faith it's mentally safe to place on this story getting me what I want out of life. Two years from now, broken, a half-dozen or more rejection letters in hand, maybe 36 or so credits to my name at Concordia, will I quietly kill myself? Or have we moved past that? It's hard to tell if the writing's coming because I'm doing well, or vice-versa. Probably a bit of both. Even if I do finish it, though, and even if I finish it around when I want to, which is to say, early January, and if I edit it for half a year (God knows that will take some patience) before sending it anywhere... and if I get an agent early on in the process and get a book deal, there's still such a ridiculous gulf. Mexico, yes, sane. Tonkin, sure, no problem. This, however...
Well, maybe I'll learn how to swim, and things will go swimmingly. This is bull-horns-grab time, innit?
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