I’m writing this book and goddamn I actually love it. I can’t stop thinking about it. The words are shit and the pacing feels like an episode of The Walking Dead (fucking BORING) but hell once I gut it and sprinkle some glitter on it it’s going to read like a damn orgasm.
I’ve never been obsessed with my own work (which is probably big red flag #1) and it feels very conceited and blind. I feel biased towards it and have big dreams for the outcome. The kind of dreams society was supposed to have stomped out of me at this age, but yet there they are, bubbled up from my skull.
I’m about 13,000 words into it and I think I want it to be short. So even the millennial reader can pry their eyes away from an endless stream of GIFs to read the best story of their lives. I’m thinking 30,000 to 50,000 words. A fucking Novella, which sounds like novel and nutella mixed so YES.
Writing about how I feel about what I’m writing is some twisted Inception mental masturbation inside of a masturbation stuff, but alas. I’m like those rappers who talk about how big their dicks are but never yank the damn thing out. My dick’s about 13,000 words big right now, but the more time I spend with it the bigger it’s gonna get.