I just finished writing a novel. Of the books I’ve written, this was definitely the most pleasurable experience not least of which because it was brief. Novel-writing is one of the few phenomenon that’s actually more enjoyable the quicker it goes. Tequila is like that too, I suppose. If I hadn’t inflamed my liver last week I might consider a celebratory drink. Instead, I think I’ll acknowledge this minor personal accomplishment by printing the book out and rolling around in its pages like they do in heist movies when they get the loot back to the hotel room. Then I’m going to pass out. And dream of re-writing. That’s the real reward after this kind of trudge. Making it pretty. Until then, congrats to my fellow Wrimos! As Hemingway famously opined, “The first draft of anything is shit.” But what did he know?