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The crisis is written. Tomorrow I’ll write the falling action; the book may even be done by Monday.

But for tonight, I have to collapse. I hate leaving at this point but sticking the landing requires being fresh.

Or at least, significantly fresher than my weary corpse is at the moment. I’m still in Zeno’s Paradox of Finishing the Damn Book, but with a bonus of knowing I’ve stabbed it until it’s significantly bled out.

Tomorrow is the coup de grâce. It’s no longer “will I ever fucking finish writing this book” but “I *will* finally be free of this thing that has possessed me for so long, just let me stab it again, and again.”

Eventually I will like this book again.

Eventually.

When the act of writing it is just a nasty memory.

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Ragged Feathers

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