It's about the writing. The connection to the story that takes you away from this world in a way nothing else can. It's our own legal drug, a constantly available escape route. And there is nothing like it.
How are things with your writing? Are you feeling it?
Here's a tiny excerpt from my next book. Enjoy! And have great weekend!
He’s there. The Father squeezes my shoulder too tight. He wakes me from a peaceful sleep to a world of pain. He stands over me, looks at me, but doesn’t see. His hair is perfect, every strand in place. Everything about him and his life is orderly, well-kept. Everything except for me and Sam. We are the dirty things. His secrets.
I reach out for Sam’s small fingers beside me, but he isn’t there. My heart pounds in my head and I bolt upright, looking to his hiding places. The corner where he hid with his puppet. The scrap of blanket he put over his head when we played together. Everything is in its place—except for Sam.
They took him while I slept, and he isn’t back yet.
Never both of us, never at the same time. If the Father had come for me, too…why didn’t he bring back Sam?
“Get up.” The Father’s voice spilled contempt, disgust. “You have to bury the boy.”