Ceci n'est pas une pipe.

You know what takes a toll? Locking yourself up in your room for the better part of a long weekend and forcing yourself to finish writing a horror story. You'd figure a 14-page short story wouldn't be the most difficult thing in the world but there is a craft to it. I will slave over sentences, second-guess the use of specific words or the layout of a description. Read and reread and rework and reread. 14 pages can be Mount Everest.

Well, when it needs to be perfect, it needs to be dead solid perfect.

Sent the revised draft to my managers Tuesday morning. They volleyed back a few small notes almost immediately. I worked on the final (?) revisions into the evening and emailed the new copy to my managers.

And now... it ought to be out of my hands. Once more, my fate rests upon the whims of a few executives.

My friend was released from the hospital on Monday, without any answers for what caused his ailment. Then he had to be checked back into the hospital on Tuesday because his problems returned. He's already endured a barrage of tests which have brought no enlightenment. My faith in modern medicine diminishes accordingly.