There is no way I could have written a novel and worked a regular job at the same time. I know because I'm working a regular job now and trying to finish up revisions, and it's an absolute nightmare. Three weekends ago, I spent time with someone I modeled a character after, and it inspired a chapter I need to write, but it was a Sunday, and I had to go to work Monday, so I scribbled mad notes on an envelope and went to work for a week waiting anxiously for the weekend so I could spit the story out. Thursday night, my sister tells me my mom is coming for a quick, unexpected visit. So I sacrifice the book to spend time with her. It's my mom, and she's old. I lose contact with the chapter, but I have the notes. This past weekend comes, and I put in some time, mostly organizing, but it's stuck. Then I wake up at 3:45 a.m. and it's all there, ready to pour. I get some out, but I have to stop. And go to work. Where I'll lose contact with the spray of inspiration within an hour or two. In fact, it's already slipping away. The temptation to call in sick is strong, but I can't do it because I'm a drunk. I can't lie and stay sober. Also, I don't want to soil the novel with dishonesty. So I'm letting it slip out of my hands again and trusting it will come back. And it hurts. That is all.