Sixty-eight pages. Sixty-eight pages of my new novel.
Only two-hundred and thirty-two more (at least) to go.
It's frustrating, tedious. I can't truly enjoy the writing process when my body is weary after a full days work, and my mind is wheeling—hoping, anticipating a day when the story is done and I can determine if it really is worth something to anyone else.
Sixty-eight pages. Sixty-eight pages of my new novel.
Well, that's sixty-eight pages more then I had before.
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