Monsters in the Closet

One hundred and forty-five days.

I'm in Wisconsin, the Badger state, the frozen north, the setting of my first unfinished 65,000 word novel that is the one that all novelists hide in the closet waiting for Silverfish to eat or that they burn in a fit of despair (I'm close) or that they hope will be the "I told you so novel" later in their career or that when they do pull it out once they've "made it" they remark how naive they were about what it takes to write a novel or how badly written it was.

Four days ago when I reread portions of it, it was poorly written, but, ya know, the plot still held together. Unfortunately, I still have another 70,000 words to go to finish out the complex plot. Oh, well. I'm good at delusional thinking.

Only one minute left on this computer, gotta go.

"Thank goodness," you whisper.

I heard that, smart aleck.