I will, though the roof open to the heavens above me, the truck fall to scrap beneath me, though my very mind is brittle and precarious in workings and hold from lack of sleep, I WILL write these books, and then some others after them. Now either manifest an actual volcano under my feet or get the hell out of my way.
I have more important things to attend to. I have a book to write.
Yours truly, and in all due fear to what petty disasters can befall me by your hand,
PS — 1,100 words at lunch today, in spite of estimates, truck repairs, and exhaustion. *nyah, nyah, nyah* Take that, world.
Crossposted from Epinepherine & Sophistry