Writers journal

         Dearest,Place your heart where it belongs. As a writer of this book I must say my heart doesn’t understand why love has to bleed in all the pages of her story.
This I cannot change, though I am not complete, it affects me on all levels daily. Nightly, I don’t quite know how writers write novels extensively.
It’s incredibly exhausting, my emotions are not mine. Almost all the time. But one cannot run when a character is sitting by the pages lost in her grievance, no one cannot.
I would love to sit still et watch the calm of life in the trees et birds, all that jazz but I fear I must get dressed et look somewhat  civil  Many do not understand the nature of writing books, I could stay in sweats all day for like days et not to mention the loud sounds of piano for hours upon hours and hOURS.I’m on repeat to:

It’s rough rabbits. Lost in a garden of things that shan’t allow you to belong to you nor it.A new feeling for me.I understand why writers don’t look well. I do, but dearest Milly said to me this am, “I’m checking in on you, like how about a bath and fresh air, should I take a picture of how you look so you can see?”   I swear to you I have fallen. I am living a story day et night. I may remain that way till I am done. But my heart is in the most still of a place lost in the greatest grief a heart can ever visit.  I don’t think being a novelist is for me, but this story sure is, donner du sens?
This isn’t about the readers anymore, it’s aboutSophie Becks, wish me bonne Chance?

 

Of to being washed up like a dirty dog in summer RS

   Ollie isn’t he like James Bond,

 

                       007.