Whoever came up with the idea of writing a novel in a month deserves to be shot. I personally think the idea belongs to a narcissistic, schizophrenic, sadistic arsehole. This week has been a pain in my much mentioned ample butt. I literally bled each word accompanied by a sound like that of a cat whose tail has been stepped on. My family stays outside the one metre perimeter that has been set up. Sign boards have been pounded into the ground around me warning passersby not to feed the animal. She just might bite off your hand and feed it to you, grinning insanely.
The muse, she of the fat body and the insatiable appetite suggested bungee jumping. Like you, I almost swallowed my tongue.
“What will it accomplish if I die and have to be lifted by spatula from the ground?”
‘Apart from becoming famous by default, you would have a healthy adrenaline rush and a surge of energy which is bound to take you over the 30000 word mark,” she said studying her fingernails which were painted a garish purple and green.
“Chipped,” she murmured, “have to make an appointment for a manicure. A beautiful woman’s work is never done.” She sighs theatrically and flutters her peacock blue eyelids.
“My heart will stop before I reach the ground; you know I have Barlow’s syndrome. You will single handedly cause the death of me.”
“Being a tad overly dramatic are we? Stop flinging around words like they are your minions. I happen to know all you have is a faulty, leaky little valve. The jump might even fix that,” she pouted not having any of my divaliscious outbursts.
“If I were you, I would get out of that ratty old robe you insist on wearing and into some jeans and sneakers. Time’s a-wasting, dear.”
“Only if you jump with me.” I flung it into the universe and waited.