I’ve been trying to make the most of these holidays by diving into my fiction writing again, except everything that flies out from my fingers sounds false and corny. My theory is that I am a little too relaxed. I find I do my best writing when I’m under the pump and there are a heap of Better Things I Should Be Doing out there. Like actual work that pays money. Or my PSLEs.

Most nights when I’ve hit a rut, I write absolute gibberish until the magic starts working and the honest stuff pours onto the page hot and quick like runny lava.

Tonight, however, I drifted over to my cousin’s blog because I’d been looking for a specific turn of phrase she had used. She was the best writer I knew in real life, a record she still holds today. And I read her old posts and I can’t stop smiling because I can hear her voice and it’s like we’re on the phone for hours again all those years ago, and she’s making me laugh until I cry. And I miss her so much.

Death is very inconvenient.

I’m blaming Christmas. It brings out the weepies.

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