It is killing me.
I’ve never gotten so emotionally connected to a novel before, never made myself cry before. I don’t like it, and I’m not sure it bodes well for the book, because I’m so attached I’m afraid I can’t be objective. I feel like every nerve ending in my body is exposed. Last night I went to bed at 4 am. I don’t know exactly what it is I’ve written.
I feel like I did in grad school, when I lived and breathed poems, and holed up alone in a tiny apartment, and fought about language in bars with other poets, and drank too much and cared too much and wandered the streets late at night too much, thinking too much.
Back then it was fun. But you see, those were poems and I was single and young. I was supposed to be like that.
Now I’m a mom. Now I’m not supposed to wander around in my nightgown at 4 am, feeling melancholy. I’m supposed to be asleep at 4 am, so I can get up and pack the lunchboxes in the morning.
I will put this away until tomorrow. I will go and hug my awesome kids.