Choose a novel. Choose a title. Choose an epigraph. Choose a protagonist. Choose a fucking opening sentence. Choose supporting characters, pets, backstory, and electrical tin openers. Choose heartbreak, repetitive stress injuries, and a lack of health insurance. Choose mounting credit card debt. Choose starving in a garret. Choose writing sex scenes instead of dating. Choose a laptop with a flickering screen. Choose a three-book contract with a crushing deadline and fucking basket accounting. Choose dying alone and wondering who the hell you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting in that chair writing mind-numbing spirit-crushing hackwork, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the last of it, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up Hot New Things who will rise up from your ashes. Choose your future. Choose a novel.