An excerpt:

“You wait right here. I’ll be right back.” I sprung up off the couch and was quickly reminded that I had a hangover. I stood still a moment, but the room kept moving just a bit. Then I continued to the bathroom and grabbed hold of a toothbrush. While I was brushing I couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck I was up to. I hadn’t written a word, I hadn’t made any money, and here I was about to spit out the stench of all my failures. All the bullshit I had spoken – that was likely the bad breath, not the alcohol. Writing is the worst thing one could pin his hopes on. All I do is wish I could pump out ten pages a day, but I can’t put myself through that. It’s like having your father sit you down for a psychiatric evaluation just to hear him say, “You’re just like me and everything else you hate.” But there are the days that the words flow. When the levees break, the words flow seemingly without an end and everything is easy once again and you think, “Maybe things will be alright.” But sure as shit, you’ll find yourself with an obligation that will stop you (not the words – those keep running in your head) like a fucking job and you’ll come back to the page later to find nothing left in your mind but white noise.

I spit out the toothpaste, cleaned up my mouth, and exited the bathroom.