Day 140: The Real Reason I Haven't Finished a Novel Yet

A few weeks ago, a shattering window woke me in the night with a start. When I peeked out of my bedroom door, I found a burglar and his dog had invaded my house. Being a prideful man myself, I decided I wasn't going to call the police and instead I confronted the burglar directly. I pulled out my phone to record him, since that will apparently protect you from anything, and caught him red handed manhandling my 48 inch flat screen TV. I couldn't believe my eyes.

"Hey," I said, "why don't you go rob someone with better stuff? I think the neighbors have at least a 60 inch!"

He shot me eighteen times. And the dog had its way with me as well. When I woke up in the hospital, the doctors told me that no less than three of those bullets passed straight through my heart. How I survived is a complete mystery to science. I asked a priest about reporting a potential miracle, but even he said (and this is a real quote), 'that sounds like a made up story.' He's certainly one to talk.

Anyway, the hospital was awfully boring, and I was falling behind on my word counting app, so I convinced one of the doctors to let me sneak home and grab my laptop. All I had to say was that I'm working on a novel and can't let anything get in the way of that. She said she fully understood as a professional with important things to do herself, but that I'd have to be back within a couple days, otherwise the catheter might cause an infection and since I can apparently survive eighteen rounds to the chest, shooting myself might not be an option in that scenario. I said I understood and got on my way.

Unfortunately, it took me three days to get home in full traction, two of which were spent in the parking lot between the taxi and my front door. Plaster is surprisingly comfortable to sleep in provided you have enough morphine in your system to not feel anything at all. When I finally crawled inside and reached my laptop though, I found the worst had happened. That burglar's dog had chewed right through my hard drive, destroying the novel in the process. I've had to start all over from scratch, which is probably better for the story in the long run anyway, but it is much slower.

And that sad story is the real reason my novel is yet to be published.

Thank you for reading,

Benjamin Hawley