You know, everyone at least once in their life comes to a point where they just want to say 'fuck this'. Just quit trying and move to a peaceful island, surrounded by clear seas and sandy beaches. This happens at least once a week to me, more frequently in recent times.
There I was, harmlessly writing, in a pleasant mood. Then the nuclear explosion of life dropped down from above and once again, I was left ready for a murderous rampage.
Sorting out all the dates for the second Maybe, Misery I checked the book because I noticed an irregularity. Yes that's right... Another fucking bastard of a mistake! The month of the last chapter is printed as October rather than December! Cue... redness of cheeks, profanities galore and the throwing of said book.
Luckily, I quickly adapted. I edited the document, removed a few typos that had been pointed out to me. Resubmitted it every-fucking-where and now there's a second edition.
It's just so fucking ridiculous you know. I had planned a second edition with added chapters, but no, we can't have that can we! If you every write a book, do yourself a favour and never fucking include dates.
I'm still ever determined, just not as much as I was an hour ago.
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