The chapter. The second to last one.

All concerns and considerations of the upcoming last chapter aside, this one was going well. Lovely, really. A readback that sang with soft melancholy. Combinations of images that twined like smoke. A hint of continuing threat, unheeded by the characters. An unexpected upturn of emotion.

But then my head stepped in to poke the promise with a stick.

My intention was innocent enough. And honorable. And right. And that’s where it went wrong.

If you were facing what might be the last living evening of someone who had—against all will and better judgment—become your life, I asked myself, what would you say to that person?

The question was a good one, a reasonable challenge for the space…one meant to make the chapter richer; to open new avenues of emotion, and send me in search of new possibilities of plot.

Good luck with that.

I asked the question. And nobody answered.

Nothing. Just the blank stare from my head where the answer should have been. As if my own head hadn’t heard me. Or hadn’t wanted to.  I have stumbled unintentionally on a pocket of silence, a Mobius loop of inner resistance that is, at once, contrary, perverse and tricky. Suddenly, I am not talking to me.

Call out the personal Sigmund. I am unconsciously letting my fear of finishing stall my forward progress. I am acting out the conflicts I feel about a recent job offer. I am finding a way to put off writing the agents’ query letter for The Spiritkeeper, the tough task that was set on the back burner in all the turmoil of moving.

Or maybe I’m just being stubborn.

No time to fix it right now. All I can do is wonder. And keep asking. And wait for the answer to fight its way through the fog; to find me where I am.

Lynn’s head. Like the heads on mules: containers of “no”…things that are just places for refusal to happen.

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