Two years ago, I had a miscarriage. That same autumn, my father’s health took a turn for the worse, and over that winter and spring, he deteriorated until he finally passed away in June of last year. Over that time, especially when I came home from the hospital after losing the baby and found myself dealing with depression, I wrote.
It wasn’t a planned out story. There was no outline, nothing specific I had in mind. I simply put words down on the page, as fast as my fingers could type them, as if the thoughts were bleeding out of me faster than I could staunch the wound.
And what came out was not something I had tackled before. My previous stories were… cleaner. This one was definitely more mature. It was darker, more “rough” as one friend put it (though not rough in writing style, she pointed out, but…
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