I’m supposed to be writing, otherwise there’s no point for me to still be awake. There’s a warm bed and a warm body waiting for me on the other side of the closed door a few feet to my right. My punishment for ignoring it is the cold twisting through my body. My fingers keep skipping across the wrong keys and I have to backtrack to get the words right, but 12:22 doesn’t seem so late really. I remember when it was nothing to stay up until 3 am reading a good book or writing. Those days are probably gone forever now that I have kids who think 6 am is late.
I’ve been listening to music with my headphones while I work, but I’m not writing. Sometimes the words just won’t come. And sometimes the words are there, but I find ways to stave them off. I often wonder if this means I don’t really want to spend my life writing stories I can’t be sure anyone will ever read.
Only my critique partner sees them, but I’ve kept this latest story close. She’s seen only a few chapters here and there.
I’m supposed to be heading downhill. I’m past the 3/4 mark, and I’ve finally