Almost bored myself to death today, which would've been a shame.

If I died today, I would not have fulfilled my life's mission: to die young, happy, and rich.

I don't want to sound like an ingrate because I view my life from a place of gratitude. But come on already. The morning commute was delayed. Lunch was a tuna fish sandwich. I've been sitting at my desk (the same desk I've been sitting at for 4 years) for 6 hours.

Do I have my health, a decent job, a place to live, 3 squares, and a loving girlfriend? Yes. (And I'm totally stoked about all that.) But. There has to be something more. Please don't tell me that I came to this planet to live some little life.

I've decided that I've got to make more money. Tons more. Think of a landfill but instead of heaps of stinking garbage with pvc tubes jammed in the ground to alleviate the build up of methane gas, think of a mountain of cash. And when the breeze comes through a few bills flutter away and it's no biggs because I can spare it.

But back to the sitch at hand. If I died today I'd die: a thousandaire, in moderately good health, who was a wee bit cranky 'cuz I didn't get enough sleep last night. (Insomnia will be referenced in an upcoming post.)

I'm sort of hoping the book does okay. (Actually I'd be stoked if one person read it and said, "Thank you.") A couple of years back I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life and I read Outliers. When I asked myself, what had I done for 10,000 hours? The answer was: write. It was then that I realized I had to try my hand at writing a novel. I dashed off 40 pages and sent it to a woman I know who has spent her entire career in publishing. She responded: the characters are compelling, I'd like to see more.

Over time those 40 pages turned into something like 357 pages. And the same woman who read the first pages, pointed me in the direction of the agent.

If my luck holds out, the agent will find a publisher. And then I get to rewrite some more.