I’m not sure what the deal is the last couple of days. Both mornings, I’ve woken up in a fog, and completely screwed up my routine.
As in, forgetting the basics. Weight. Peeing. Coffee.
Well, okay, never coffee.
I’m burying myself in this new novella, which admittedly, is practically Gothic in its darkness. If Jeopardy were all about finding that bright line between searching and discovery (only to realize it’s a constant combination of both, lest one fall back out of favour again), and Captain Hanna were all about elevating the conversation around tribalism to what it is we see as the end product, rather than some continued vicious cycle, Dead Talker is all about the bleak.
It’s about hopelessness.
I know a lot on this subject, and the hope here is not to plumb its depths and get worse, but maybe, to expunge some of the hold it has on me at times.
Shadows can’t live in the light, or so I’ve read somewhere. The same is true for all things unknown. Shine a light on any subject long enough and all its dark corners will be revealed.
This is an exorcism, this book. Hopefully, it won’t get a sequel.