/lit/ - Literature

>>20286534
Three days of procrastination later and I'm starting to feel guilty. But why? I've no commitments. There's no deadline breathing down my neck. I could finish any number of projects easily enough, tomorrow or the day after at the latest.
Yet I don't. I let the work pile up. I make no commitment. I let it pile up. Dogs are barking. I let it pile up. Cranes flew over my house. Eight cranes. I let it pile up. Two swans flew over my house. I let it pile up.
Three doves and three days. Start. No, I won't. I stare out the window. The wind blows. Rain falls on the window, little drops. The drops run down the window, following curious paths. I used to stare at the windows of dad's car and follow those droplets for hours on long drives. My siblings would moan and whine, ask if we're there yet. They thought I was looking out the window. I wasn't. Just the window itself, and the water.
Tomorrow will be the fourth day of me not working. I need to give account of my conduct, if not to anyone then to myself at least. Why do I do this?
I put on rubber slippers and go check the mail. Junk mail. What else? I throw it all in the recycling bin and walk back to the house with empty hands. Junk. All junk. Maybe that's the key.
I sit down at my computer and look at all the junk they sent me. I prepare a simple e-mail message to all of them. "Thank you for your interest, but this just isn't what I'm lookin for, yours etc."
I send it in a single mass reply, then delete their junk, all of it unread. With a sigh of relief I begin to feel pride swelling up. Being a literary agent is hard and thankless work, but I just did three days' worth in less than two minutes.
I'm one of the best. Dogs are barking again. Maybe it's time for a cup of tea. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy etc.
Before I get up, another piece of junk has entered my box. It keeps piling up. But surely if it's just the one, I could read it?
Tea first. Maybe after. Maybe it will keep piling up and I won't have to deal with it.

I genuinely believe it's over for me. I'm old, I have no motivation or fight left in me. I've wasted too many years and life is too complex now to deal with effectively. I spend my life reading or browsing the internet searching for answers and find none, not in religion, not in philosophy, not in "self-help".

If you had to recommend just one book as a last gasp attempt to save a desperate person, what would it be?

>have my book split into 3 parts
>they should be roughly even in size
>currently part 1 takes up almost half of what I've written
>I've only finished 8 of the 14 chapters that make up part 1
100k words is a pipedream. This is getting out of hand and I regret nothing.
Looks to me I'll be spending at least another 9k words wrapping up part 1. This would put me at a total of 84k words, and a mere 16k words to parts 2 and 3 just isn't going to cut it.
What the fuck am I supposed to do now? Nobody's going to publish a book over 100k words.