About weird-ish satisfactions

Nope, sorry to disappoint, but this won’t be dirty. Unless you have a fetish for wannabe writers. Then it’s possibly dirty. But this fetish better be mighty strong. Ok, enough and back to my point. I finally got around to buying a new ink cartridge for my printer and printed the first 2(out of 4) chapters of my “novel”, the next to follow as soon as I remember to buy some paper clips or something ‘cause I have papers scattered all thru my room. It’s such a weird satisfaction seeing all the pages in a stack. I feel good. I wrote 175 pages, 1.5 spaced. And you know what? It doesn’t suck too badly. I remember it being much, much worse so right now I’m sighing with relief. Sure it’s not the greatest novel ever written but for a first attempt it’s actually decent. I’m proud. I should be. I’ve read published books that are worse then that(seriously, how many clichés can a man hit in one book?). I’m never going to send it to a publisher ‘cause…hm, I can’t think of a good reason but I just won’t. Now I just need to finish editing and write the ending and then I’ll be all set. I will be able to brag that I wrote a novel. And, damn, it feels good.