The sticky black mud stinks of rot. Every sinking step makes a sound like the slurp of a peanut butter shake through an exhaust pipe. As I strain to pull my trailing right foot out of the muck, the sludge sucks at my shoe. I curl my toes to keep it from slipping off. I lift my elephant foot higher, and stare at the shoelaces which are now like dreadlock sized spaghetti. Swinging my leg forward, I gaze longingly at the bank of clean pebbles ahead of me as my sole settles into darkness once again.
I am on page 277 of 318 in my final edit of my manuscript. And it is killing me. No, actually it stinks. Just like slogging through the mud. When I get done with this, I never want to see it again. Except on the shelf of a bookstore . . .