EPTHaving downed several beers, typing this is easier than pissing into the toilet right now (mainly due to liberal use of the backspace key). Too bad the fucking novel is not. I _know_ that the story in my head is better than the stuff I read these days, probably better than anything I've encountered in the fantasy genre, other than GRRM and the first two Glen Cook titles, of course. But here I sit, drunk, bitching, wondering if the slimy stuff on my hand is liquid soap or spooge, and the novel is not going to be committed to paper anytime soon.
It's probably soap, but I'm not sure if I care right now.
