writing

Done

Well, almost done.

One more read-through and this blessing, this pox upon me, upon my family, will be complete.

Or complete enough to send out to every agent and publisher that might have an interest in such dark doings.

After all, everyone wants to read a story about someone’s less-than-epic descent into depression and suicidal behaviour, right?

It doesn’t even involve hard drugs, which is a stretch for me.

It does involve lots of awkward and vaguely unsatisfying sex, probably, because I can’t seem to keep it out of my work.

I’m a pottymouth.

But it’s so close now. This week. I can feel it.

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