“Well,” belches my muse. “You really screwed it up this time.”

“What?” I said. “I made it to 50,000 words. 55,000, even! I won and kept my streak alive.”

“Ah, but you didn’t finish the story this time,” he said, waggling a fat finger. “You notched your lowest wordcount since 2012, too.”

“Does that matter?” I said. “It was an ambitious story without a real outline, and I had a life this time around instead of just free time.”

“You won’t finish it,” my muse said. “It’ll go on the pile with those other half-finished books. The YA book. The noir. The action comedy. That pathetic attempt at political fiction.”

“Look,” I said. “I don’t care if I finish it or not.”

“In this case not.”

“I wanted to tackle some quasi-serious science fiction, some big themes, and try writing some more diverse characters…all at the same time. It was a lot to chew on, but I’m not sorry I bit it off.”

“Oh, you bit it all right,” my muse said, cracking open a fresh brewski. “You bit it.”

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