So, like, I’m trying to get off my ass and write. Yesterday, I printed out the novel I stopped working on when my wife and I decided to divorce, circa September, 2003. One hundred and twenty pages, not much of it good, but, you know, they're pages, which matter more than anything, even if they're bad. What’s killing me is that there are at least 50 pages missing. The uncle and nephew buying the suit. The mashed potatoes scene. The dissertation summary. Gone. Vapor. Most of it is still in my head, but that suit scene; man, I just know I’m never going to get it as good as I had it. I know it. "Him being all avuncular and shit," being the only line I can remember. Fuck.
Naturally, I blame my ex-wife for all of this.
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You rock the page, Woody. No question. Looking forward to the new stuff. If I had an ex wife I'd blame her too. As a matter of fact, I blame your ex wife for the lack of progress I'm making on this story right now. Avunculata, AW
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