I have a book.
Well, it’s supposed to be a book.
It’s a book I’ve been working on for, oh, maybe a year and a half.
And yes, I’m a slow writer, but not THAT slow. :poof:

It’s probably a very good book.
How do I know? The first chapter took second place in a national contest. The judges raved. The writer friend I showed it to thought it was the best thing I’ve done so far. It’s full of the dry, ironic humor I’m famous for. (well, my cats, at least, laugh all the time).

So why haven’t I finished this book that shows such promise?

A few reasons, I suppose—but here’s a big one:

Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.
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