Alright. I don't want to scare you. I don't want to startle you. I don't want to turn your motherfuckin' world upside down. But get ready to hear this. It's the straight dope, the real talk, that somethin' somethin' that opens our ears and unlocks our hearts. It's called the truth, and for once?
It's fantastic.
I have not one, not two, not three, but four, read 'em, four literary agents currently looking at my book. Three full requests and one partial, just the right mixture to make a fella feel welcome. It feels nice. It feels good.
I feel like the future is promising.
Now if one of them actually wants to snatch me up? That would be even better. Any takers? Guys? ... Guys?
Are you still there?
In other news, I'm kind of pumped to be writing tomorrow. It's been seven days of work, and daddy's been jonesing for his fix. I'm at an interesting section of the story, so I feel like I should be able to keep the action up. Of course, writing is never without its problems. You'll see something, and you'll want so bad to fix it, but if you do, well, you're just a little like fucked. You've got charlie coming out of the jungle, and you can't stop, you won't stop, because the whole platoon's dead if you do.
So you leave that man behind. He's screaming, stretching out a hand, begging for a smoke, a bullet, anything but to be left behind. Of course you harden your heart and keep hoofin' it through the shit, but deep down you're thinking only one thing: You're coming back, you swear to God you're not leaving him in that humid hellhole forever. You'll return for Martinez (or Tex, or Louie).
Of course, it'll be to put a bullet in his head, but whatever.
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