Some day I'm going to get to the point where I can do this job and it doesn't near to kill me every goddam time.
This is not that time.
This is midnight on a deadline, headsick and gut ten miles of bad road blue caffeine highway, nothing waiting for me but an empty bed and the prospect of an ugly unslept day snapping at the kids I love more than life itself, hating them a little, wondering in the short term how in the holy FUCK I'm going to carve another 300 words of fat from this draft without slicing the muscle, cutting a tendon and leaving my baby crippled, flopping across the page like a spastic when he should be dancing.
What I've always wanted to do. Greatest job I'll ever have.
Fuck this writing lark. Fuck it sideways. Fuck it all for a game of soldiers.
Fuck it right up until the moment when I get it right, and the blood on my hands fades away, and I forget it all again.
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