This little Basquiat guy has been charming me all month from the calendar hanging next to my computer. I've never believed in the muse as such, but I feel like Mr.Everlast has been my silent guardian over these last few days, pushing me through the final chapters of my draft. Not since grad school have I felt so compelled to get something done, ignoring the pleading of the sunny park and the bad television and the smelly dishes. It's especially nice knowing that, as opposed to school, this has been purely self-induced.

In less than two weeks Mr. Everlast will be buried under June's picture and that seems like inspiration enough. How could it almost be June? How could I have given such little attention and care to my writing all these months and years? If I can show up and be professional with each and everyone of my clients as I have for the last eleven years, then I can show up at my writing job with the same level of professionalism. Wouldn't it be sad if, in the end, I turned out to be, first and foremost, a massage therapist and not a writer? If it was all because of laziness and fear?

So yeah, I'm going to try and not let that happen.