Maybe I am writing this. I haven't yet told my agent that I've abandoned my BEFORE 17 proposal (for now). I can't seem to make myself work on that thing. I have a block against it. My editor wants me to finish it, my agent wants me to write a proposal (minimally), but it wasn't my first-choice project. I've only been doing it because they want me to. And now I'm having a secret rebellion and writing something else.
I am probably being very stupid.
The thing is, I haven't enjoyed writing for a long, long time. I mean, my FREEFALL revisions were gratifying and I felt very accomplished when I was done with them. It always comes back to Seth, doesn't it? But writing new stuff? There just hasn't been any joy for ages. Not until Saturday when I started this. So, I'll see where it goes. The cynic in me gives it another week or two before I start over-thinking things and sabotaging myself again. But the last time I felt this excited to write something was when I started FREEFALL. And, well, that worked out pretty well for me in the end, didn't it? I can't help feeling that I was meant to write this.
In the morning, I shower, get dressed, and take my time getting ready. My usual routine. I don’t join my family until I’m totally put together. The parents joke that they haven’t seen me without makeup since I was thirteen. I’m pretty sure I was actually twelve, though.
After I finish blow-drying, I spot a mark—an actual hickey—on my neck. It’s small, barely there, but seeing it makes me want to hurt someone. I separate my blonde hair into sections and get it all sleek-looking with my huge curling iron. Then I hold the scalding, metal barrel against my neck for about a half second so that the tiny hickey is covered up with an inch-long burn.
I’m ready now.