Now I understand how so many authors end up as drunks.
This is harder than I thought, but I'm taking a break, and going out to enjoy some vino.
Does this make me a real writer? That I've been struggling through a major, major, and final rewrite in the hopes of landing my dream agent, and that I have neck cramps, a crab-ass attitude, insomnia, and the desire to just go out and get shitfaced?
Well, then, sign me up!