It’s sad, but true.
I blamed myself but my writing said, ‘No, it’s not your fault. It’s down to me. I’ve brought you to this. After all, I made you finish a manuscript and told you to walk away.’
So, I’ve walked away and am bereft.
I can’t sleep because there’s no book to think about; I try to, but my manuscript pushes me away saying, ‘Leave me be, there’s nothing more you can do for us right now.’
Therefore, so far this week in order to stem the heartbreak I’ve been swimming, reorganised my dressing table, sorted out my wardrobe, re-boxed my shoes and completely restocked Husband Dearest’s underwear and sock drawer with clean laundry. All his shirts, apart from the one on his back, are washed and ironed. I’ve even been seen doing some gardening!
But, but … I know my manuscript and I will get back together in some shape or form sometime soon and that I’ll nag it and force semi-colons onto it and worry about it until it’s sick to death of me again.
However, here’s the rub; once we’re an item again it’ll tell me that it knows about the other story, the one I’ve been trying to ignore while I grieve.
It will say, ‘I know you’re planning, even if you’re pretending not to. I know there are going to be other characters in your life.’
And, because my manuscript has a much bigger and better heart than I do, it’ll beckon the other characters to come forward. It will tell me to invite the new story in. One day, anyway, I hope it will …