It’s approximately ten thirty on the last day of national novel writing month in 2004. I have three point five thousand words left to write. More importantly, my novel itself is coming to a close. I feel these two goals are entirely within my grasp.
Two nights ago, I confessed to Laura that I don’t think I want to be a novelist for a living. She wasn’t surprised, but I was. It’s always been my dream to be a published science-fiction novelist.
I am resolving that I will not write my next novel over the course of a month, but instead work on it every day for at least a year. It will be a work of literary fiction with sci-fi elements. (Not the other way around.) I may start it as early as tomorrow.
As soon as I am dressed, I leave for the spyhouse coffee shop.