Folks, it’s been a weird year.

I’ve been stuck in work. Trapped in creative stasis. And Degenerate, my third novel, has remained frozen in time.

I’m staring at the last chapter but I refuse to write it. I don’t know why.

Mason, my main character, is overwhelmed with anxiety and poverty and workplace subterfuge and grandparent dementia and sibling abandonment and wild hallucinations and a serial killer of children and…

… and I’ve locked that motherfucker in a nightmare frame of time.

130,000 words and not a single addition in forever.

I’ve done all the work except for the last five percent and then I’m like, “You know what? Nah.” Who does this?

Meanwhile, I’ve written the openings to five new novels.

I’ve realistically got about three days of writing left, and perhaps this is finally the good news because I swear by the light of Rainbow Jesus that I’m going to finish this Dementor-fucked novel in the next few months.

I swore it by Rainbow Jesus and that is as good as concrete.

Then, as they say, the work begins. AKA, pitches, marketing, AI-driven auto-response rejections, disillusionment, fantasies of moving to the woods, etc., etc.