T-Minus three days left to write three novels.

Three days left. 

I've been writing in a bar that features in Jack of Clubs. Two come up; Medusa in Soho, and Pontiac in Central, which I contend to be the satanic asshole of Central, a bar where the walls between Hell and Hong Kong are thin as can be.

If you have been to Pontiac, I reckon you know what I mean.

I don't dislike it, but a spade's a spade.

I'm close. 45 000 words so far for Jack of Clubs. Evidence follows. I've written more in my life in this period of time, in the last 18 days, than any other time. I can write faster. I write more. I feel like I've come out of some kind of fucked up word dojo, where the goal wasn't quality, but sheer quantity. 

The finish line is in sight- but I haven't finished yet. I have almost no commitments for the next few days, or 70 hours or whatever, so no excuses.

I've had a lot of awesome support and kind words and all, and at the same time, some doubt from others- a little, but it's been there. But sometimes when writing it all fades away.

Instead, there's just the challenge, and the rest is noise. There's the hill, and the hill's all I have to answer to in the end. I reckon that's what it's like for a lot of aspirations. No one will ever care as much as you will about whatever. So care your fucking ass off. It'll always be a bit absurd anyway.