a writer with no sentences is like a shark with no teeth

My people are on ice. I pressed send on my novel yesterday and now I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m not cut out to be a productive member of society, not on days of no paid work.

I’ll have to ride my bike.

Clean the house.

Find someone to have coffee with.

I feel empty. Plus, I’m waiting for my editor tell me what she thinks of my work.  

I wonder what my protagonist, Ruby Wheeler, is doing today? 

I could start another novel or dig up one of the unfinished ones. Unfinished novels might stay unfinished for a reason, I reckon.

I could do justice to my blog. Yes, get on your blog, Nicki. It’s been over a week and you did leave it in a bit of state.

Libby. My dead sister, Libby. Forty-two forever. In less than a month it will be two years since she died and I’m obsessing.

I have Platypus Rock, somewhere to go, but that’s what I craved last year when we cast her ashes into the river. There is barely any of her left. Time has washed her away. I will go to the rock, sit, talk, sing, but it doesn’t bring her back. It feels like I should do something different to mark her passing this year. But what?

In dreams. I see her in my dreams, hang out with her, she had funny thick eyebrows and she has them in my dreams, too, I like that.

I’m thinking of a Libby tattoo. But I have been thinking of a tattoo since the week she died and two years on I haven’t done it. I don’t love tattoos. I like the art, but not the permanence. And it’s not as though I need reminding she’s dead. But I’d like something to love and smile at, a tattoo, a scar. I’d rather she was here and she dug a ragged capital L out of my forearm, cuts, blood, pain, Libby could handle a razor blade. Then I’d have something to smile at.  

It sucks that she won’t read the new novel; she would have seen herself in it like she did in the first one. And the new novel will be dedicated to her and my other sparkling sister, Erin.

Libby loved my first novel. When I inscribed it she told to me write, ‘to my favourite sister, Libby.’ I have two sisters and they’re both my favourite. After she died, I got her copy back. Her eyes had been on every page. It’s become the copy I use for talks, whatever, and it’s wrecked, underlined, crossed out, dog-eared. It was the last book Libby read and she only had it for a month or two before I reclaimed it. Her eyes had been on every page. 


see? i love you, libby.

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