"I’m taking a sabbatical from writing today to honor the sabbath."

"But you’re not religious." She quipped back.

"I found God over night. He came to me in a pitcher of margaritas." I explained.

"You didn’t find God. You found a hangover. Now go and write."

"No, I found God in my drunkenness. The hangover is the work of Satan. He’s a mighty cunning *******."

"Quit making excuses. Go write. You’ve a deadline to meet."

"But God…" I had no response. I knew I needed to write. **** the blurred vision and the permatrails and the vice squeezing my head, words needed chosen and laid out and edited. Words I didn’t want to write but words that I had little choice not to.

"Ffffffuuuuuucccckkkkk." I whined and instantly hated myself for it.

"Look, we’ve been down this road before. Go make yourself a couple ****** Mary’s, sit out in the sun, and work on the next book. It’s easy."

"Easy? Fine you write it. I’ll be the agent."

"You’d **** as an agent, it involves talking to people."

"Yeah, ok. *******. Just make sure that when I do the rounds for this book you put me up in some hotels with a good bar."

"Yeah yeah yeah, I know you get paid in bourbon."

I laughed. She laughed. I hung up the phone, made some ****** Mary’s, went outside, sat under the sun and sweated out last nights drinks and God and Satan while adding to the days intake, and worked on the next chapter.