i finished my twentieth novel, tentatively entitled getting to perfect, at 1:20 am sunday morning. it's about 390 pages [92,000 words] and was surprisingly much easier to write than i'd anticipated. there was one day, about 2/3 of the way through it, when i was completely stumped and had no idea what i was going to do next. i thought about taking a break, maybe reading it through from the beginning or something. but no, couldn't let myself do that. so i ended up writing seventeen pages that day instead. sometimes you just have to push through, i guess.

got an email from my mother that my younger brother, who is schizophrenic, is off of his meds and living somewhere in omaha [probably out of his car like the last time]. she believes God is going to deliver him; i believe a strict regiment of medication might. it's the same thing with him over and over again, and i guess somewhere along the way i've become numb to it all. he wasn't exactly the easiest person to deal with before his diagnosis. there are all these guilty thoughts in my back of my mind, always in my mother's voice, that i shouldn't be so apathetic about the whole situation. well, apathy or not, there's nothing i can do about it anyway. so i guess in a sense i'm finished with that whole thing, too.

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