1 Year, and 71 days of Writing a Novel
I dreamed that I could sled.
That I could travel anywhere,
using only my body.
As long as I held one arm in front of me
and pointed two fingers toward my destination.
I wrote yesterday.
And it was so much fun.
I think everything is going to be alright.
I have a beard now. Everyday it grows longer, and darker.
Pulling the strings out of my stitching.
Roots, searching for anything solid.
The card game is farther along than it feels.
But the novel is the ruby. The uncut jewel burning brightly in my eyes.
Holding the darkness at bay.
The hounds are just outside, and I fear the sash was left open.
The weather is growing colder all the while.
Everything is going to be just fine.