Tonight, 1am:  I've hit 148,000 words exactly in NOT YET.  I’ve added and subtracted so many lines, like a goddamned mathematical linear function.  A house is only finished the day you sell, and editing is only done when you print. 

They say writing in solitude is like crawling into a cave.  But it’s more like staring at the sun.  The rest of the world is blotted out, you become blinded and can’t focus on other people.  Suicide is supposedly the most selfish act, but writing is worse.  Only the self-absorbed become writers.   

After three months of facing the blinding glare of a computer screen for 10-12 hours a day, seven days a week, figured I’d take a break and enjoy the printed word again.  Unfortunately, the problem with reading a novel while editing is that the author’s voice creeps into your own writing.  Yet, a friend said my manuscript reads like the suicidal side-effects of the Halcion prescribed by “My Year of Rest & Relaxation” by Ottessa Moshfegh.  And now I absolutely adore her!  Call me a groupie with a desire to hibernate, I’d follow her into bed for a year.  Not for some sordid Sleeping Beauty fantasy, just for unadulterated, blissful sleep.

Two (three?) years of writing about suicide has taught me that feeling suicidal is different than being suicidal.  Like the Spanish verbs estar and ser, one conveys a temporary condition and the other a more permanent state.  Feelings pass but the danger is this – Anything that passes surely comes back around.   

I’ve decided that while on my fictional book tour, not a book tour of my psychological fiction novel but rather the fabricated book tour that every author dreams of, I should probably tell people, “If you know someone who is feeling suicidal, then have them read this book.  But if you are suicidal, then this book just might persuade you in the wrong direction.”   

I don’t like to say my book, because in one week the publisher will take over.  I’ll run the gauntlet with editorial beatings to a finish line at the printing press.  At that point, my book becomes this book, no longer mine to tinker with or dramatically alter.  The novel becomes an entity on its own, dictated by forces outside of my control.  The uncertainty and doubt will pass and I'll move onto the next novel, the next crisis, knowing that without fail, the feelings shall return.