As I write, I'm uncomfortably aware of how much of what I've dealt with in the past goes into the story. Moments of the more catastrophic of my mistakes, times in which I've brutally mistreated someone, and the awful few days of loneliness that invariably plague me some months come back with such clarity, I end up walking away from the computer in a state of cowardice, feeling unable to capture what I've been through. All of it comes back when I'm writing a scene in which the words I write match what I've felt in the past. I can't see a possible way around it, if indeed my goal is to capture human beings. I'm really not that brave.
I hate these moments of dealing with past emotional junk I've stored underneath my bed. If somehow I've come across like I'm in a wretched mood, I'm really not. What you're seeing is good old-fashioned fear, the likes of which prompt me to want to hide from writing.
Pressing on...
Page count: 224
Word count: 50, 113
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