I've been putting so much pressure on myself to finish this book proposal before I'm destitute and homeless, that my blog has kind of suffered. Not that it shines under normal conditions, but at least it's spell-checked.

When I told my friend that I was "going for broke" with my writing, I didn't realize how literally I was speaking. Why does life cost so much money? I can't even drive by a Target without dropping $50.

I'm starting to understand why writer's become alcoholics. Actually, I understand why any living person becomes an alcoholic, but writer's more so. There's only so much time anyone can spend examining their thoughts and words before some kind of internal combustion process starts to take place. Writing is definitely a neurotic activity and not something anyone should undertake without the distant hope of financial reward. At least math problems have one answer.

Just for today, I can examine my imploding brain.