Burn. Burn. And I'm laughing as I say it, laughing as I'm repeating his name to myself and out loud. We just finished a book. I know it's not done, I get it...and Burn will be the first to go on and on about re-writing, about this discipline you have to have, about the shit you have to carve out of rough words to make them presentable and I get it, I fucking get it. Something happened in the course of the story we were telling that I can't divulge, but what happened...basically and exactly, was that I had to write the last 10,000 words myself. He sent me this e-mail at his 3am one night and he went off on this rambling tangent - I think he might have been sleep walking on his computer because most of it was non-sensical, but the jist of it was this epiphany of where we had to take our tale - and it ended up leading us to a place where all the work was mine. I had to bring us home...me. This was Burn's fucking idea and I'm doing the heavy lifting and then he has the nerve to drop me the cute little fucking hate e-mails. Fucking Burn. He's amazing to me - because he is such a pussy, really, truly...such a pussy. And then he's ravenous and he's pressing and he's the scariest motherfucker I know in the world and I think that's amazing. And now, we've written a book together and it's going to be huge because how could it not be? How could something forged from the efforts of the two of us not reach out and topple the world?
So yeah, I sent my draft of the last chapter, Los Angeles, to Burn sometime yesterday and he sends back this reply that said something like, "Now we go. Tighten your belt." And I have no fucking clue what that means and so I sent back this response that said something like get fucked and I haven't heard from him. I think he's brooding or working on his chapters and he's going to send me another e-mail in a little bit that's going to tell me where he is and he'll imply that I'm dragging ass and that I need to get moving and I'll say something back like go fuck yourself and we wont really get anywhere but for some reason, I'll end up guilty and so I'll work and so maybe he's got my fucking strings tied around his fingers after all...just like he always does. Fucking Burn.
I'd tell you the title...mostly just to spite him, but I think he'd fly across the pond and cut my dick off. So no, you're just gonna have to wait.
