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People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.

Nanowrimo, Day 26: Today was shitastic, emotionally-speaking, and I realized this morning that I don't know if I like the novel or am scared of it because gods damn it, it's really just the first half of what this novel is trying to be, which means that these forty-off thousand words are just useless fluff. (This is not true, but it feels like it when I try to think of just what, exactly, has actually happened in the novel. This is also how I felt about the last two novels.) So I wrote a panic attack and some sexual tension between bouts of Whose Line is it Anyway?

Excerpt:
Something heavy fell on his shoulder, grabbing and squeezing and pulling him back. Chip tried to shake it off, tried to punch, but his body was shaking so hard he lost his balance when he turned around, his ankles tangling with each other and so he fell to the ground, hitting the back of his head on the bumper.

"Easy, son, easy there," came a soft voice above him. "It's just me. Come on, breathe, breathe for me." Hands gripped him tight by the shoulders and pulled him back up onto his knees. A wrinkled face, creased with worry, swam into focus in front of Chip. "Come on, son, focus. Breathe. It's alright, everything's alright."




43414 / 50000 words. 87% done!


* Ernest Hemingway

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