But then I had a really bad week at work. Not just miserable, or boring, but sobbing all day and downcast all week bad.
I came home exhausted and frustrated and angry and upset.
So I did the only thing I could do. I wrote.
I took one of my characters, and gave her the bad day. But she coped better than I did. She did what I wished I had done. And as I wrote, I calmed down. The anger melted away, the frustration disappeared, the tears dried.
And then writing that scene led to another, and another, and then led to a part of the story that I didn’t know was there, but in retrospect makes sense.
When I finally put down my pen, I also finally felt better. I’d finally found the calmness that had been eluding me all day.
Whatever the reason I write, whether to tell the story, or achieve something worthwhile, or to connect to other worlds or places or people, I know one thing for certain. Writing will always be my best, and often my only, refuge.