I worked on a short story this week. I had a writing prompt and the story poured out of me. I knew where it was going and I knew that it would be good. I felt it in my gut. But I found myself reluctant to write the story’s end. It was going to take an emotional commitment and I was afraid. It would be painful and it would leave me glum for the rest of the day. So I put if off for a couple of days while I gathered my courage, and then with my deadline fast approaching, I sat down, gritted my teeth and wrote. As the words fell onto the page, so did the tears.
It hurt to write the end and I did feel sad for a while, but later I felt surprisingly good. By writing someone else’s story I’d worked through some of my grief, which some six years later still manages to punch me in the gut and leave me winded.
Damn, I need a tissue again.
I miss you, Stephen.