by Shelton Bumgarner
So, I’m writing a novel.
Now that Trump’s probably never leaving office, I feel like I have been pushed into the second act of personal quest for fire.
Because of a unique set of circumstances, I have a window of opportunity to throw my entire mind at writing a 200,000 word work of pop art about life in the Trump Era done in the guise of a thriller set in a small Southern community.
It may suck, but at least you can’t say I didn’t try.
And given the track record of writers, I’ll probably die of consumption even if I do manage to sell the thing to a publishing house. Or I’ll have to self publish.
But my entire creative life is officially consumed by this project. I’m giving myself a deadline of Jan. 1st, 2020 to finish a SECOND draft.
Wish me luck.