There is a strange, horrific fascination in killing off characters that you have painstakingly crafted out of the ether. As a reader it makes me furious, but as a writer it is a glorious walk in Un-reality. All the dark swirly bits get to go somewhere—do something. Holding the darkness inside is mind-numbing and sucks the joy out of everything. When I release the darkness into a creative flow that weaves itself into the stories I create, I find relief. I find moments of freedom so complete that it is indescribable. I wish I could stay in those spaces and thrive, but they are like soap bubbles. Glorious. Full. Shimmering. Fleeting. Gone. A sadness always descends after I finish a manuscript. I feel empty, spent, exhausted—but clear. If I try to contain the stories and characters, I feel terrible. I get depressed and hopeless. Everything feels clogged. I can’t breathe. I love to write, but I don’t write for the LOLs. I write because I have to… Week 5