Bury me on the waterfront

I feel like the novel I am working on is killing me. I’d swear I can see life escaping my body. A glance into the mirror shows that in two years I aged ten. Writers die young, it’s a fact. Crichton died prematurely at 66 because he was a writer. He wasn’t the first one, nor the last one. When will my time come? Will I live to the mighty age of 66? Will I drop dead tomorrow?

Every time I look into my novel I find fragments that I want to, that I must re-write. It’s a normal process, that’s how a novel is born, but in this case it is taking too long. I am typing with one hand, the other holds an ice pack to my chest, where the heart is. This time I must change 4 chapters, re-write to make 2. There’s probably nothing wrong with them. There can’t be. Not after two years of harrowing work. But, I feel that they affect the flow, and they are in such a place that interrupted flow is simply not acceptable. There is nothing more terrifying than the thought of a nail-biting reader who bites his finger off because of my incompetence.

I’m sweating. I’m becoming increasingly upset. I’ve had enough. I drink shiraz. Doesn’t help. So, I down another bottle. I feel better. But what about tomorrow? What will happen tomorrow when I look inside the novel again? Will I ever finish it? Is Dan Brown thinking the same thing right now, late delivering his next work? Ha, the thought is somewhat pacifying. But, what the hell do I care about Dan Brown? At this moment my whole life is my novel. If I’m lucky I’ll go crazy, otherwise I’ll be sniffing flowers, from below their roots. Bury me on the shoreline, where the waves touch the sand. I’m saying goodbye now, in case I’m not given the opportunity later, in that very moment when my chest rises in the last gasp, when my eyes cloud over…