If I could stretch like a cat, I would. Right here at my desk. I’m referring to a full-body tongue-lolling kitty cat stretch.
That would feel so good right now.
But there are miles to go before I sleep, before I stretch.
Writing a novel is funny because there is a train running through your head and its passengers consist of “How Many Words Today?” and “This Story Sucks More Than A Sucking Thing.” Then as the train gets closer to its destination, you start to think that you might just make it safely to the station. Maybe the book is that bad.
And so it goes. . .