End of Semester
The thrill of the end of the semester lasts until the second day off, I’ve learned. At that point, I look at my unfinished novel, call myself names for being so derivative and dull, and start waiting for the next semester to start. But it ends happily — I sit down finally and write a bit. You can never predict how well a day’s writing will go by how you feel in the morning, especially before lunch.
I’m about fifty pages or so from finishing this draft, then I can start work on my next work of nonfiction. I don’t know why I’m writing a novel, actually. I’m pretty bad at fiction, and I doubt it’ll ever see print. I would like to say it’s just for the fun of it, but it’s not that much fun. So I have no idea.