1 Year, and 157 Days of Writing a Novel
Everything else is a campfire. Keeping me warm.
Outside of this small circle of light is a darkness. A vast and dangerous cold. I try to ignore it. I keep my fingers warm, and draw things in the dirt beside me. Little plans and maps of what I’ll do when the fire dies. Sometimes I turn my back to the fire, and face the endless night. This is when I feel the most alarmed.
My torch is on the ground, unlit. Soon my fire will die, and I’ll have to transfer the last of it carefully onto my little stick. and then I’ll run into the darkness; afraid; a little trail of flame traveling behind me like a comet.
There is nothing out there. Just more ground to cover. More night to chase me.
The edge of the darkness is a curtain, and that is where this journey ends. When I run outside into the lights and take a bow. I need to get up. And start running again. Or that curtain is never going to find me.