Waiting

Sometimes Waterloo feels like a giant terminal. People waiting for their ride out of here, waiting for someone or something to show up. It's always been that way as long as I've been here, and it seems it always will, no matter what progress is made. There's never been enough patience to allow things to happen instead of forcing them, and now, flush with my own ambitions, I see why. The starving will kill themselves in feast if you're not careful with the food.

Both my new novel projects frustrate me. I can't seem to solve the riddles of either. I get bored of one and turn to the other, and I end going back and forth without making any real progress anywhere. I should pick one and concentrate on it, but then I think I'd love to do anything but write a novel right now. When Lance Armstrong wakes up in the morning and goes, "Yep, I'm gonna ride another tour," that's the commitment you need to writing novels, and I just feel so tired and out of ideas. My problem is I start fitting if I'm not writing. I literally have to be writing something all the time, so letting the batteries recharge hardly ever happens. I hate it.

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