Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I tremble when I write that.
Papers have kept him up until 6:45 AM. Finals are filling his days. He'll exit the final final at the final hour — 7:30 Friday night — and then we'll bring him home.
Yesterday afternoon he called us in a snatch of stolen time. "Guess what I just did to chill?" he asked. I had many possible answers; I kept them to myself. When we said we didn't know, couldn't possibly guess, he answered like this: "I wrote. I wrote what I wanted to write. A new installation in my mystery series. Can't wait to read it to you when I get home."
You know how I've always said that writing, for me, is medicinal? I am sitting here feeling just a mighty bit of glad that I passed that part of my weird genetics on.