Day Fifteen, Word Count: 34,040

I'm going to make a promise to you, right now. Only people who read the blog will know about it, so it'll be like a secret club, only significantly more lame because nothing happens except you know I said this. Here's the promise - if I'm ever in a relationship again, which seems to be looking about as good as the Lions winning the World Series this year, my blog, my Twitter and my Facebook won't become a shrine to all things Francesca (I'm assuming she'll be foreign and really sexy, in this case). A relationship will be really exciting, sure, but I'm going to do my best to remember that I'm a person on my own and not just a half of a couple. That and nobody really cares if I'm currently talking to my girl, thinking about my girl, or looking at my girl. These are things that couples do every day. No one cares.

I say all of this not to criticize anyone currently engaging in such activity, but to remind myself, should my beloved Francesca saunter in my life (and I truly believe she will saunter), what I know now – all of that doesn't look like you're convincing us of how strong your relationship is. It looks like you're convincing yourself and your significant other of it. And, again, no one cares.

How's this relate to writing a novel in a month? I don't use it to update people on what I've eaten in a given day or the new shoes I bought. I consider it an outlet for my creativity, even if it is only 140 characters at a time. If I'm willing to dissolve that into my relationship and let it become a text messaging system to send love notes that everyone else can read, how long before my blog becomes the same? Or I start writing everything only to impress and/or woo dear, sweet Francesca?

That's kind of sweet though, right? Art was made to woo women. But if my art, and as a byproduct, my entire sense of identity is tied up in one single human being, what happens to me if we break up?

I'll leave it at that, but hint: nothing good.

Now, Most Ridiculous Line Thus Far - A light bulb went off in Meeks head, but only metaphorically. He stepped up to the plate, also metaphorically. “I’ve got an idea, guys.” That wasn’t a metaphor. He really did have one.