excerpt from working title"SOAP"

I was sweating typing out a creative piece for a book within books, an association of writers for writers. The publication would be grand for me. With some advances and a publication to my third largest work of art. This one was about a ghost, a ghost named Shelby. Shelby Specter. And I drew another line on the coffee table. The story almost completed. The idea started from a one page short story I created for another writers for writers magazine. But as I missed my girlfriend more and more the story became bigger into a short story and about 50 pages of being a novel. I had this feeling that Shelbs would never come home and I looked in the book shelf and saw a Poe book I hadn't read in a while. My face was numb and I had the sniffles. Only 10 more pages til I reach the maximum required words. And now I'm stuck reading. There's bourbon beside the garbage, I just remembered and I walked over and bent down to see if I was not completely too fucked up. There it was and I got a rock glass, added some ice and poured that sweet liquid into it. I headed back to the typewriter and pecked words as I drank, sipping the liquor like joy. As my last word was typed, my face slammed into the typewriter, mixing fresh ink with blood and jolting the machine. I was just so drunk.