I sit here looking at my manuscript (for my first novel), it needs to be edited. The 512 pages is staring at me, wanting to be edited. But the thought of it is daunting.
I have beer in the fridge. Stone Sour is playing in iTunes. I don't have work tomorrow. I have a book that won't read itself, 'Everything is Perfect when you're a Liar' - By Kelly Oxford (@kellyoxford - twitter).
Page 89 (hard back), she has just thrown up into her shirt to save a messy car, she drank a "Tornado", she was pissed, (English speak for REALLY DRUNK);
It was quite a spectacle. "Guys, i don't chew enough," i said distractedly. "look! There's a whole fry in there, Mara. And it still smells like McDonald's". And then the second bad thing happened. I opened the window. Then i grasped the hem of my shirt tightly and gave the pool of vomit a good flick in the general direction of the window. But the window wasn't open quite far enough and my aim was drunken and everything i'd caught in my shirt hit the ceiling of the car. And it stuck there until, slowly, pieces peeled away and fell at my feet. It rained vomit.