There was this really thick brick wall, like bomb-proof probably, and the wall was between me, asking Scrivener why it can’t just take my notes and plug into my brain and finish the book for me, and a completed novel draft sitting on an agent’s desk, and I kept typing and typing, and my words gathered themselves into a sledgehammer, and I shattered it. I remember how to do this now. I remember that I love writing, and that I have a story to tell.
I also noticed that in the two main things I’m working on, a major turn for the protagonist revolves around a shot of tequila. I’m not sure what that says about me.