Squawk Radio

They tell me it's supposed to be called Deadline Dementia. But this is much, much uglier than dementia. At least, with dementia, you don't know who the hell you are or what the hell is going on around you. And with dementia, you get eggroll.

I have been writing a novella for over a month. In the past, I've written novellas in two weeks. Less, even. This one was supposed to be mailed on Monday. Yet there it sits, like a bloated, fetid shank of rhinoceros offal on my computer screen, while the rapacious hyena of the Serengeti (i.e. my !@#$%ing subconscious) laughs and laughs and laughs.

It is an Evil Thing, this novella. It mocks me. It taunts me. It makes me write things like "A wistful, poignant little stab of pain pierced her heart at the realization. Then she forced herself not to think about it." Perhaps she should go have a sandwich, maybe do a little shopping, have a pedicure, and think about it some more. Or perhaps, *I* should go have a sandwich, maybe do a little shopping, have a pedicure, and try not to think about it at all.

Or, wait. I know. Perhaps yon heroine should just hurl herself out yon window. Yes, yes! That works for me! And then the hero, roaring his love for her as her little feet disappear over the sill, rushes to the window, tripping over a stray electrical cord on the way, and falls to his death, as well. They will be united in death, immortalized forever as a greasy stain on the sidewalk. C'est magnifique.

It would end everyone's suffering. Theirs. Mine. Any poor sot who picks up this novella in published form. Should it get that far, I mean.

Alas. Woe is me.