off the annoying audiobook. I’d rather lie in bed and paint my own stories across my mind. I might not be able to w ork at the moment, but at least I can prepare for writing; I can play the ending of the book over and over in my mind until it’s perfect.
I try to do this for a few minutes, but my thoughts run away with me. I keep thinking of a book I’d love to write called Snowfire . I’m not sure where I heard the word, but I think it’s a beautiful oxymoron, and would make for a great romantic suspense. I would love to create a character based on Liam. I wonder if he’d help give me feedback before I send it to my publisher? I’ve never had anyone that I trusted enough to read my writing before it was finished and bound in a book. At that point, there’s very little anyone can say or do to improve it.
The real magic happens in the process. Could Liam be part of my process? Could he contribute to my work and be healthy for my career? I could try my best to be good for his—it is the reason I’m staying in this congested, stuffy city , after all. Well, it’s part of the reason. My mind wanders again, imagining the perfect relationship where both parties feed each other’s success; is it possible? Could we really support each other and make each other larger instead of dragging each other down and sucking the other person dry?
All the relationships I’ve witnessed have been parasitic. One person would bleed the other person of all their energy and love so that they could perform better in their own life, without any consideration for the other person’s fulfillment. The only exception to this was my parents—but of course, my mother died. She left my father brokenhearted, and our whole family easily crumbled without her. She was our pillar of strength. We all leaned on her so much that we didn’t even realize how quickly we would fall flat on our faces without her. We also seem to have lost all connection to each other.
I realize that I’m making the classic writer’s mistake of dwelling too much on own life. I have been way too absorbed in my own story. This hardly ever happens to me, but it’s been a huge issue lately. This is another reason I prefer to be solitary—when there’s too much drama in my own life, it really distracts my mind from my work.
It’s a great problem for writers, trying to maintain focus. Sometimes you feel inspired to work on something entirely different from what you should be working on. Sometimes you’re even forced to live your own story instead of contemplating and creating a better one.
When my phone rings, I jump slightly. I move to reach for it, eager to hear Liam’s voice—hopefully with news of my computer. I turn over in the bed, and feel around for the place where I dropped my phone. It takes me a few seconds to find it, but I quickly fumble to answer and place it against my ear.
“ Hello!” I say in a pleasant voice.
There is only static and a strange rustling on the other end of the line.
“Liam?” I say with confusion.
The sound of heavy breathing filters through the phone.
I sit up in bed, beginning to feel worried and anxious. My body grows tense. “Who is this?” I ask again.
“Do you think I’m evil, Helen?”
Hearing the voice from my nightmares causes me to sit up even straighter. I feel as though ice water has been poured down my spine.
“I never wanted to hurt you. My sweet Helen. I don’t know why I did any of those things. I just couldn’t control myself. Do you think I’m evil? I must be evil. What other explanation is there?”
My lips part slightly as I look around the bedroom nervously, paralyzed in a sort of terror. I know that Grayson is not here with me, but I feel as though he might be. I am suddenly very aware of how alone I am in this apartment.
“I’m a monster,” he says quietly. “I know that now. They said there’s something wrong with my brain, but I don’t believe them. I’m just evil. Pure evil.
I try to do this for a few minutes, but my thoughts run away with me. I keep thinking of a book I’d love to write called Snowfire . I’m not sure where I heard the word, but I think it’s a beautiful oxymoron, and would make for a great romantic suspense. I would love to create a character based on Liam. I wonder if he’d help give me feedback before I send it to my publisher? I’ve never had anyone that I trusted enough to read my writing before it was finished and bound in a book. At that point, there’s very little anyone can say or do to improve it.
The real magic happens in the process. Could Liam be part of my process? Could he contribute to my work and be healthy for my career? I could try my best to be good for his—it is the reason I’m staying in this congested, stuffy city , after all. Well, it’s part of the reason. My mind wanders again, imagining the perfect relationship where both parties feed each other’s success; is it possible? Could we really support each other and make each other larger instead of dragging each other down and sucking the other person dry?
All the relationships I’ve witnessed have been parasitic. One person would bleed the other person of all their energy and love so that they could perform better in their own life, without any consideration for the other person’s fulfillment. The only exception to this was my parents—but of course, my mother died. She left my father brokenhearted, and our whole family easily crumbled without her. She was our pillar of strength. We all leaned on her so much that we didn’t even realize how quickly we would fall flat on our faces without her. We also seem to have lost all connection to each other.
I realize that I’m making the classic writer’s mistake of dwelling too much on own life. I have been way too absorbed in my own story. This hardly ever happens to me, but it’s been a huge issue lately. This is another reason I prefer to be solitary—when there’s too much drama in my own life, it really distracts my mind from my work.
It’s a great problem for writers, trying to maintain focus. Sometimes you feel inspired to work on something entirely different from what you should be working on. Sometimes you’re even forced to live your own story instead of contemplating and creating a better one.
When my phone rings, I jump slightly. I move to reach for it, eager to hear Liam’s voice—hopefully with news of my computer. I turn over in the bed, and feel around for the place where I dropped my phone. It takes me a few seconds to find it, but I quickly fumble to answer and place it against my ear.
“ Hello!” I say in a pleasant voice.
There is only static and a strange rustling on the other end of the line.
“Liam?” I say with confusion.
The sound of heavy breathing filters through the phone.
I sit up in bed, beginning to feel worried and anxious. My body grows tense. “Who is this?” I ask again.
“Do you think I’m evil, Helen?”
Hearing the voice from my nightmares causes me to sit up even straighter. I feel as though ice water has been poured down my spine.
“I never wanted to hurt you. My sweet Helen. I don’t know why I did any of those things. I just couldn’t control myself. Do you think I’m evil? I must be evil. What other explanation is there?”
My lips part slightly as I look around the bedroom nervously, paralyzed in a sort of terror. I know that Grayson is not here with me, but I feel as though he might be. I am suddenly very aware of how alone I am in this apartment.
“I’m a monster,” he says quietly. “I know that now. They said there’s something wrong with my brain, but I don’t believe them. I’m just evil. Pure evil.
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