I was remiss in not posting last night. My pillow screamed louder.
Pages clicked like parenthesis on day five. A thou in the early morning. A thou near midnight. Responsibilities between. Sometimes I fear that vast chasm will chase away my momentum. Sometimes it's the hours my mind needs to flesh out what's to come.
Most times I write in public, I retreat into a sinkhole where someone has to touch or speak to me to coax me out. Yesterday, a Friday group of women sat nearby, sipping lattes and editorializing their children's homework. Gradually, the conversation shifted into their struggles to care for their aging parents. One woman, who had appeared so dominant and outgoing, plunging into the details of the others lives, became the center point. Her voice rang out discordant notes, the others fell silent. So bizarre it was to be an unwilling voyeur into this woman's breakdown, pretending to read my screen, but feeling every bit in my chest the weight the others must have felt.
Sometimes we write about sadness where we feel only joy. Fear where we feel only safety. On those pages, words have the potential to be discordant. Yesterday, the stranger's pain made an imprint, infiltrated my character's emotional black moment, and I'm grateful to her for the gift. I hope she finds peace and comfort.