Chapter One was fifteen pages almost three years ago. I finished the rest of the book, took a year-long break. Ch. One was rebuilt into fifty pages in the last couple months. In the last week, I’ve restructured it into roughly thirty pages, cutting out all the excess. I think I know what I’m doing now. Setting up forty characters and a decade’s worth of grudges between lineages is simpler than I made it out to be. The less anxiety I’m undergoing the less complicated writing becomes. It’s not therapeutic. It’s not a sadomasochistic vehicle for my obsessions. Writing is an ongoing exercise in mental reorganization, a strategic self-imposed maturation. I promise this next book will be an easier and more enjoyable read. Still, some dark themes. But I’m learning how to incorporate comedy into tragedy. It’s late. My cat says it’s time for bed.