I've hatched a novel--and it hates me.

I swear this novel is trying to kill me.  I'm leaving this note behind so that if my body should be found, the world will know the truth.  Mr. Brooking did it, in the library with the lead pipe.

Cause I feel like I'm being bludgeoned. This whole stinking novel doesn't want to cooperate.  It's like dragging an anchor.  But I know there's a narrative thread buried somewhere in this mess.  I will finish this novel and dig back through it until I unearth that thread, you know, the part that ties the whole thing together, the part that makes the novel work.  I'll drag that narrative thread to the surface and polish it until it shines.

But if anything happens to me, you've been warned. 

My novel wants me dead.