It’s coming up on a year since A’s death. I don’t want to say when, exactly. Frankly, I don’t really know when it was. No one does. The examiners guessed. Anyway. A year.

I’ve always thought I was rather articulate, prolific even, but I’ve scarcely wrote a word since A died, and I don’t talk much. I talk, just not wittily. The MS I’ve been shopping of late, when it sells I don’t know what I’ll do. I mean, I know what to do. It’s not my first. But I am not ready for the kind of decisions that have to be made, the kind of attention it will bring. I don’t want to answer personal questions. I’m really not ready for people in the scene to read it. Not that what they think matters. It will be light fare for them.

I wrote it before A died, which is weird since one of the main characters is a dead person. A died but the atmosphere, the feel of the flat, the thoughts in my head… It’s as if we just finished a game of Dominion and are snuggling back into the couch, pulling together a meal, or stripping down for a fuck. It doesn’t feel like much has changed, yet everything has.

Then there’s the fact that when this book sells I’ll be roped into another series. And then what? There’s nothing left in my head. Everyday I work to find words for basic communication. “Four stamps, please.” “I said, ‘No onion.'” Shit. I remember where I was going with the series when I wrote the synopsis, sort of like I remember what I was doing with my life before A died. Now… I’m not the same. How am I supposed to act the same, be the same, write the same?

Magick pill

Kiss me kill

What I can be not

Show me the best I got

(I told you I wasn’t articulate anymore)