Real talk, whatever it is that wants to be born is probably going to be borderline kinda like “Fuq YOU~ Write Me~” once you really get in the minor key OF Novel November.

Really writing gives absolutely NO fucks for your feelings OR ego at all. & Starting it when the veil itself is at its’ thinnest during the year didn’t have anything to do with us humans. It was the book babies conspiring, wanting to beat our asses until we birth their books, all working in unison, to fall on writerheads at once for a global push.

Let’s call it fucking cosmic literary Lahmahze!

It’s kinda cool, actually. The camaraderie. If Stephen King WERE to do officially sign on to it, his book babies could be clotheslining him just the same way some teenager in Poughkeepsie could be getting body slammed on day three their first year patching in to the flow.