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.


3 Responses to “End of Semester”

  1. Scribbler Says:

    There was a time I kept insisting on writing poetry. A good friend of mine, and a good poet kept telling me, “You know you’re a lot better at writing short stories.” And I knew he was right.

    Go figure.

  2. Because you must? That’s my theory.

  3. Lavanah Says:

    Instead of hoping for a mass market publisher/print run, why not go in a (really) small run, art book direction? Find an artist to work with, print 50 or 60 copies and sell them for exorbitant amounts of money!

    Besides, there are people who read your books, then sit back and say about other publications “well, not bad, but not written as well as Patricks.”

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