[fiction, instead of lies]

So, I finished my looong edit. I worked hard on it — to the exclusion of eating sometimes, which means I was dead serious about it.
Actually, isn’t everyone dead serious about their writing all the time?
I am.
I might write something sometimes for “fun”, but I don’t think I’ve ever yet quite grasped what fun is meant to be. Not that I don’t enjoy writing, but at what point is something just tossed off as a harmless little piece? At what point can I stop polishing, editing, cutting, tightening, tweaking? When do I let a piece go?
Never.
I wish I could learn to achieve some distance. Actually, it’s going to be necessary to achieve some distance and keep my current state of sanity (Level: low) intact. Frankly, it might be necessary to …jettison some things.

I wish S.A.M. were a playwright.
I think he’d be dead brilliant at it.
He could write long, whiny soliloquies on all manner of topics only Noo Yawkers care about. He could air his frustration on the state of lit’triture these days. He could collect a cooing coterie,be Known in Lit’trary Circles, and be the Toast, the Ton, the Bon Mot man.
And then?
Then, I’d become a critic.

This is, of course, just one version of the alternate universe, what it could be. Offered freely, and of course, the picture is apropos of nothing in particular, nothing at all…