It's not nice to call people names (I know this because if you've read some previous posts I got referred to as a 'right-wing rape apologist' a few days ago), but what the heck, oh bugger it, let's make it what the FUCK, I'm about to. I'm going to call Rev Fred Nile a miserable, anachronistic, zealous, chauvinistic, self-righteous old fuck. There, I just did it. Seriously, man, what is actually WRONG with you? Your new proposed bill suggests women contemplating abortion be forced to view an ultrasound of the foetus. Are you on crack? Do you think women contemplating the termination of a pregnancy do it with the laissez faire of someone changing the colour of the streaks in her hair? This is cruel. This is draconian. This takes fuckwittery to a new level. And supposing the woman contemplating the termination is blind? What then? Does the radiologist have to provide an ultrasound printed in braille? Keep your miserable policies and ideas away from my physical autonomy. Oh, and you might leave Muslim women alone, the ones who want to wear the face covering, which under our present laws regarding freedom of religion they are entitled to do! Freedom of religion doesn't only apply to the Christian faith, okay? I wish you'd put on a face covering; it would not only hide your smug know-all mush, it might muffle the sound of you blathering that piffle.
But on the bright side, last night I did what many authors dream of finally doing. After so much work, and sweat; after having to put a project on the back burner when my house flooded last year and because I had to finalise some subjects in disabled care, at about 8.40pm last night I actually typed THE ultimate sentence, and then hit the 'return' key a few times. Then, oh then, I centred and typed the two wonderful words I have been looking forward to typing for so long, and I typed them in bold font. Those two words? They are: The End. And then I hit 'return' a few times, left margin justified again, and typed the copyright symbol, my name, and the year. Yes, I finished my novel-in-progress. It's no longer a novel-in-progress. It's now earned the status of Completed First Draft. I punched the air with my fist. I accepted a congratulatory hug from my younger son. I listened to my older son applauding, and smiled as my husband also congratulated me. I sighed I blinked away a tear. It's finished. It's like lancing a boil. It's like having a troublesome growth surgically removed. It's like a weight from my shoulders. It's finished. For now. In about two weeks, which I consider to be a suitable break of not looking at the beastly thing for a while, I'm going to start going through it with a fresh set of eyes, and begin the edit.
But for the next fortnight or so, I shall be very busy not giving a shit.
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