At thirty-five, I wanted to settle down and write a novel. Something mysterious and dark, with just a hint of romance. An on-the-edge-of-one’s-seat type of read with thirty-sixty s and ninety thousand words. Although I didn’t have an outline completed for the book, I did have a few s written down and a string of characters within the folds of my mind: a drug-addicted racecar driver, his whore of a girlfriend named Betina, and Betina’s wealthy father, the rude and obnoxious oil tycoon. Thus far, I had forty-five pages completed, lacked inspiration, and mostly sat staring at the piece, unable to continue its growth. In the meantime, I kept the designed characters inside my memory, called them very close friends, and planned on using them in the near future, once the creative bug struck me again.
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