the unfinished novel

In a feeble atempt to breathe life into this half-written smattering of words I will refer to as a "novel", I'm posting an excerpt. It's a reminder to keep writing, no matter how much the story might suck, or how much this thing seems to be gnawing and clawing to get out of me rather than flowing smoothly as it had just 3 days into the process. So here we go. the unfinished novel: a part of a chapter about something or other:

Holland woke up and meandered his way into the kitchen. He reached for his canvas bag next the kitchen counter and pulled out a notebook. With what little light crept into the kitchen from the street lights outside, he started writing notes. He wrote questions he might ask and theories he might present. He leaned over and reached deeper into his bag pulling out a variety of plastic bags. Each bag held a rainbow of pharmaceuticals. He'd created a variety of cocktails based on his expertise in neurochemicals and behavior. He'd tried variations of the very same cocktails on his rotations at the hospital. Of all the new young residents, he seemed able to pinpoint individuals amazingly well. He prescribed drugs no one had thought to use, he mixed them with things like "a glass of orange juice" or "a handful of figs". He knew the properties of every drug, the benefits of every food, and the pathways each one took throughout the body to reach its destination. He was somewhat of a medicine man in that respect, and with soft steady hands, he was the surgeon everyone hoped would be standing over them if they were in need.
He fingered the multi-colored pills and held them to the light. He'd have to do better than this. He couldn't begin this journey by handing her a baggie of pills and a diatribe on how to use them. There would have to be talk. There would have to be reasoning. There would have to be meditation along with imitation. He'd have to be a doctor, a friend, a zen master, and a genius to get this done. To help cure the uncureable. To harness something no one before him could. He sighed and closed the notebook. Despite all his preparation and confidence, he'd have to rely on his instinct and just hope he didn't screw this up.