I slept well last night and I don’t know why. I trace back what my day looked like so I can replicate it again just to get some good sleep. The one thing that stood out was writing. I finally started writing again. I guess when I don’t write, memories and untrue narratives crowd my mind until there’s no more space in there. Then I can’t sleep. Knock knock. Who’s there? I don’t know, but get them out.
I started writing my third book yesterday, what I’m calling an autobiographical horror. I’d like to think of it as Stephen King meets Hunter S. Thompson with Sylvia Plath overtones, minus the latter two’s terrible demise.
I slept well last night and I don’t know why but I hope it’s from writing. Painting helps me but not in the same way that writing does. There is no other way to expose thoughts, to slap them around a little and put them in their place. There’s no other way to remove cancerous memories and untrue narratives from your brain except to trap them onto paper for all to read. They almost lose enough of their power.
I fell asleep with ease last night and at 5:30 this morning my eyes opened in a flash. I was wide awake with no questions asked so I got up and started my day with writing. Since I met the day with writing, I hope I sleep well tonight too.
Until we meet again dear reader,
I am Sterp. I write dark fiction and have a very unhealthy obsession with disturbing narratives. I am the author of The Cult Called Freedom House: Sophia Rey Book One. My short story The Lost Tea Cup is in Issue 26 of The Literary Hatchet. I am also a painter.
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