It wouldn’t be a month of intense writing without a dark night of your own (not that I was intentionally courting one – I’m not that much of a masochist!). The last two days have been that for me (don’t let the happy smile on Day 19 fool you!).
There are any number of reasons, catalysts and contributors to this (some I would talk about and others I won’t) but I am glad to say that through the doubt and the tears and the struggle through a bunch of behind the scenes stuff, I kept writing even when I lost faith. The story rumbles on, carrying me kicking and screaming where necessary.
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“In my novel, he lies to her,” she said, her voice choked up. “It’s a blast furnace that destroys everything that tries to come near it. The lie is like a piece of rotting meat in the esophagus of their relationship. They’re both choking on it.”
The image evoked the carnivorous hourglass in his dream: Aliyah masticated in the copper jaws, Joshie drawn into it. And in all these nightmares, where was Tabitha? The woman whose red tresses ate her.
Tabitha with her fading, red hair bound up in an untidy mess, looking as though someone had pulled her apart and sewn her back together in a way that wasn’t quite right. Like Ramsey had said about being in love.
‘What’s the fucking point,” she swore. “You’re not even listening. One day, Christian,” she said, standing up half-dressed in her corset and skirt. “One day, I’ll become the thinnest sheet of glass. And I’ll shatter and disappear.”