Scrambled.
No alarm needed, my brain produces thoughts and questions, dialogue and quirky characters, publishing avenues, and marketing plans in my sleep until I stand to my feet at 4:00 AM and drag my body toward the coffee pot.
I hit the button and hold the handle, waiting for the first drippings, yawning, blowing my nose.
The story began with my father’s death, a way of keeping him alive. His voice strong in my head ten years ago, now fading behind my own. The first draft is complete, edits are pulled from me. I don’t want to do them. Wasn’t writing the book enough? Do you know how many hours it took to come up with 52,000 words that made the cut? Hours. Hours. And more hours.
I sit at the table, staring at the screen, yawning more, choking down strong coffee. The bed calls for me. And yet, I stay, planted in my sturdy chair. What keeps me here?
Not dreams of wealth or fame. I laugh because I know the cost of writing a novel, a story that moves me to tears, doubles me over with laughter.
Uncontrolled joy covers me like a blanket. What keeps me tied to a story?
Love.
Love that embraces me.
Love that awakens me.
Love that unravels me.
Love to my father.
I pen. All. Of. Him—through the life of a character and he remains alive and vibrant in my mind. Perfect. Beautiful. Unscrambled.
