To all of you writers who produce 5,000 word chapters, kudos to you.
To all of you writers who produce 1,000 word chapters, kudos to you.
To all of you writers who do multi-chapter fics, kudos to you.
To all of you writers who do one shots and dabbles, kudos to you.
Original works? Kudos to you.
Fanfiction? Kudos to you.
Just started writing? Kudos to you.
Been writing for years? Kudos to you.
Write stories that you don’t share but look at fondly because you love it? Kudos to you.
I am a firm believer that no one type of writing is better than another. The love and energy you put into your work is what matters. You all deserve kudos. So just know that if you feel like no one is reading or no one cares that I am, and I do.
The
woman is sitting on the ground, cast in lovely dawn shades of gold and pink. Her legs are crossed, hands folded in her
lap, and her lush white curls fall over one shoulder like an avalanche. There is not a speck of blood on her hands or
on her pants, despite the pool spreading slowly beneath Sephie’s back. For some reason, that is what Sephie is most
focused on at this moment—the blood is hot and wet and deeply unpleasant, and
she envies the woman for not having any on her.
The car that struck her and drew the blood is long gone, a hit and run,
and the coffee shop’s customers will not come for their caffeine fix for almost
an hour. Unless the woman shows a
heretofore unforeseen interest in things like cell phones and emergency
services, or a particularly helpful spook wanders past and kicks up a fuss, Sephie
is reasonably sure that she will be dead by then, and the only thing to greet
her regulars will be the sticky pool of red.
Sephie
frowns, or at least Sephie considers frowning.
Fine motor functions are slightly more difficult than usual. The coffee shop won’t be opened today, if she
dies. This bothers her rather a
lot—that’s years and years of her life in that coffee shop, and it seems absurd
that something so transient as death should stop her from opening it and making
cappuccinos. Maybe her spook will stand
up and take care of it, she thinks.
Spooks have done stranger things.
“I’ve
been on sabbatical for thirteen years today,” the woman announces with a serene
smile, looking down at Sephie.
She’s
been answering that for years now.
“That’s
nice, miss,” Sephie rasps, and the blood on her lips is salty.
