My pen that I love so much, it writes so smoothly and dark, just ran out of ink! Now dont ask me what brand it is or anything because I am oblivious to that (although I suppose I could just look at the pen to find out) I just know that I got it in a two pack for 7 bucks at CVS pharmacy, and the other one in the pack was chewed to death by my darn dog. I finished my notes with a different pen but it felt so foreign and weird in my hand. I miss my pen.
Today I was asked a couple times what my book was about. A simple enough question, but I felt a frog in my throat as I began trying to explain my plot to these people. It was odd that I felt so self-consious when talking about my book. I felt like I was bearing my soul to strangers. This overwhelming forboding hit me. I would have much rather read my entire journal aloud to a stadium than answer these inocent questions. Why is that I wonder? It's a fiction book, with no basis on any of my reality, and no connecting plot lines or characters to me. I just felt as though my whole life, every thought I have ever thought and every feeling I have ever felt were being displayed right then and there. I wonder how people who have their books published feel. To have that feeling a million times over, with thousands of people. That is going to be a challenge I will have to face full on, it will be hard, but I know I can do it.