Going back into novel mode. Done with the gonzo for a long time. Being a journalist is dirty. It’s not really me. I’ll do it if people want to pay me. It’s bullshit. I can’t do it. I have enough material and evidence now. I don’t really need any more.
I’m a writer. I make books. Tonight, I Got drunk and sad and felt defeated. I thought and made connections and had a good time. I’m not that old. I can still have fun. I hope.
Now for bed and get the hell out of this town when the sun comes up. Go back tomorrow to my novel for five and then Friday be back in the city. There’s no life and It’s sad here. Vibes. Real or not. They’re bad.
The Book. I Worked on it for ten hours today. Deleted the site . You wont hear about it again until it’s done . I always say that. I think I mean it. I don’t know what being human is.
There’s a free sample. I think this is the home stretch. I’m feeling alright. Nice. Enough nonsense. I’m like a kid. I don’t know else to do oh man…
I should sleep. It’s hard sleeping alone. Not because of loneliness. Because I get restless. I can only laugh. I’m not a bastard like you have to be in this world. I try to be nice. It’s made life not easy. I don’t care. It is what it is. Talk soon. One week off. I don’t even know what I’m talking about. I wanted to say I’m ok. For who? I don’t know what being human is.
Be happy. Writing a novel is the best thing in the world. I love lamp. Be Cool. Thanks for reading.
http://issuu.com/westvinepress/docs/sample_version_of_hardover_version_
Adventures In American Writing 