I began my novel two weeks ago, and I've written two chapters of it, both roughly fifty pages. That's around a hundred pages total, not bad for two weeks.

Let me start over:

Writing has been one of my only passions of this year. I dropped the band (they had an excess of guitarists anyway), I dropped volleyball (I decided I really didn't have the time), and I dropped about half my acquaintences. Now what's left? Me, Him, the computer, and 100 sheafs of manuscript.

It seems almost paradoxical; I resent myself for this alienation, and yet I'm absolutely enthralled with bringing this to life. I'm by no means proficient, or even qualified for writing (anyone who knows me knows how much trouble I have with finding the right word), but it's a lifelong dream that is somehow more fulfilling than the highest grade on a physics test. I pine for it.

But anyway, that's what has been taking up so much of my time that I haven't written in so long. Lo siento.

~AF