“Sam found himself smiling,
although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. He just felt good, better than he
had in a very long time, and he knew Brevyn Steed was behind it, in his own
unique, overbearing, foolishly cavalier way.” (Writhe, page 80)
With an alarming sense of certainty, I come to you this afternoon sure
that I can’t write.
Before alarms are sounded or eyes are rolled at my overplayed pathos, I
am simply speaking of writing on Book Two today.
It’s a nervous day for me, one in which my panic disorder is bubbling
up to the surface from the depths my meds and years of experience have buried
it.
It is not pleasant.
Thankfully, unlike in years long past, I know that it will pass.
Tomorrow will be a better day, at least in that respect.
I sometimes forget (possibly block out with all my wishes) that this is
how I used to be every day. That how I am right this minute would have easily
been deemed a “good day” in my twenties.
I’m sure there is a reason for such reminders to strike, for such hours
to blacken and darken all the progress that has been made.
Yes, I’m sure there is a reason.
But I don’t know what it is.
Perhaps tomorrow when my literary escape is once again open to me, when
I can string a romance together with laughter and angst not my own, I’ll find
that reason.
Perhaps.
But on days like this, I doubt it.
And isn’t that a crying shame?
Until tomorrow…
Chloe
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