27 Aug No Court Would Convict Me
Last week I finished my first book only three inches short of a complete nervous breakdown. I’d been under the gun for weeks and, as the deadline loomed and it was clear I wouldn’t make it, this printer decided it wasn’t going to work anymore. I lost my shit.
The thing is, I didn’t even try to break it. I gave it a smack, as if that would keep it from claiming there was no paper in it. After the second smack I realized that I wanted to crush the printer way more than I wanted to get it to print. So I followed my nose.
I punched the top of the printer until I couldn’t feel my hand anymore. When I was done, I threw it, spraying crushed glass all over the bedroom I’m using as a makeshift office during my home renovation. Yeah, I renovated my home and wrote a book this August. How was your summer?
My wife rescued me. She didn’t call the police or have me committed, she merely cleaned up the glass and insisted I take a walk. When I returned I was ready for the long haul into night. Fewer than 24 hours later, I typed the final words and sent it off to the publisher.