Fragment Friday: The Song That Set Her Free

As you may recall, Natalie and I participated in a community project to help support the arts in our local schools.

Natalie has shared her play with you, and I thought that I would share part of mine for Fragment Friday. There are a lot of things that I want to change in this 10 minute play. I see a lot of holes, character flaws and it may be a little over dramatic.

But it’s mine.

I took my writing and put it on display for strangers to see. I do that weekly with this blog. However, it is one thing to imagine readers sitting at their computer screen, it is quite another to have your words, actions, and ideas put on display in front of a living, breathing audience.

I sat in anonymity watching the play unfold before the spectators. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life. The actors were outstanding. The director got to the heart of the matter in the play. And I? I felt as if there were a flashing light above my head, and yet, at the same time, completely invisible as I sat there with a group of people who did not know, that I was the playwright. I saw open, raw reaction. Looking back, I’m still amazed that I did it.

The play was taken from a piece of flash fiction which I wrote for the blog. I’ve since removed the piece because I’d like to work on it without having it…out. (Writers sometimes have strange relationships with their work.)

As always, comments, ideas, and feedback are welcome.

Now, on with the show….

The Song That Set Her Free

By Lori King

Leah: A traditional housewife and mother

Marty: A husband, an up and coming Lawyer

Jessica: Leah and Marty’s oldest daughter (age 11)

Patrick: Their second child (age 6)

Mary: Their third child (age 3)

Anne: Leah’s best friend

The Song That Set Her Free

(Leah, dressed in a full skirt and heels, is standing stage right, at a stove in a modest kitchen, flipping pancakes in the early morning. There is a table center stage fully set for breakfast. Five chairs surround the table. There is a laundry hamper, ironing board and some shelves stage right, down stage from the stove. A notebook and pen sit on the shelf among some other books. There is a sink upstage from the table and a box of laundry detergent sits next to it. Stage left and down stage sits a wooden rocking chair and a bar stool.)

MARTY:

(Enters stage right in a bathrobe and slippers. A towel is draped over his arm. His hair is messy. He yawns.)

Good morning. Are the kids still in bed?

LEAH:

I was just about to call them.

MARTY:

I have to get to work early today. We have a client first thing. Maybe I should just eat…

LEAH:

Marty, we don’t get very much family time because you’re so busy…

MARTY:

Okay, okay….but I’ve got to leave early so you’d better get them up.

(Marty exits stage left and the sound of a shower is heard. He begins to sing.)

LEAH:

Jessica? Jessica? It’s time to get up. Can you get your brother and sister dressed?

JESSICA:

(Enters stage right fully dressed.)

Yeah, mom.

I was already awake. I’ve been reading. Have you ever read Jane Eyre?

LEAH:

Yes! I loved it when I was your age!

JESSICA:

I love it! But Mr. Rochester seems mean.

LEAH:

Just keep reading. You’ll end up loving him. Now, please hurry and get the other kids up. Can you have them wash their face and hands? Daddy will be out of the shower in a minute and we’re going to sit down to breakfast.

JESSICA:

Sure Mom.

(Jessica exits stage right)

LEAH:

(Leah quickly finishes preparing for breakfast and begins to set out all of the food on the table.)

MARTY:

(Enters stage left, clean cut and shaved, dressed in a business suit.)

What’s for breakfast?

LEAH:

Pancakes, eggs, bacon and some fresh berries.

MARTY:

The pancakes are going to be cold before we eat. You should have gotten the kids up earlier.

LEAH:

(Sighs)

 I know. They’ll be here in a minute.

(She pours milk into glasses as they wait for the children to join them.)

(The children enter stage right noisily arguing about where to sit. A glass of milk gets spilled as they sit.)

MARTY:

Leah…

(He gestures to the mess on the table in disgust.)

LEAH:

(Hurries to wipe up the mess and calmly gets the children seated and the children begin to eat.)

MARTY:

Can I get some coffee?

(He shakes a coffee cup in Leah’s direction.)

LEAH:

(Hurries to fill the coffee cup, and speaks to the children periodically. Coaxing them to eat, to stay clean, to mind their manners as she cuts pancakes into bite size pieces for her youngest.)

Do you know what time you’ll be home from work?

MARTY:

Leah. It just depends on how long it takes. If I have a client come in late, I’ll be home late.

LEAH:

Will you call if you’re going to be late?

MARTY:

I will if I remember.

LEAH:

Does Kathleen stay with you when you stay late?

MARTY:

Of course she does, she’s my assistant.

LEAH:

I don’t like the way she talks to you.

MARTY:

This again, Leah? It’s nothing. It’s just the way she IS. She’s like that with everyone.

LEAH:

Well, ‘everyone’ isn’t my husband. You are.

MARTY:

What do you want me to do? She’s a valuable asset to the firm. I’m not going to fire her. You worry too much. We’re a busy firm; we need an assistant. That’s all there is to it. Speaking of, I’d better get out the door. I need to get to work.

(He wipes his mouth on a napkin, kisses the kids and begins to walk stage right. Before he exits he turns back.)

Tomorrow I’m going bowling with Hank. Can you make sure my bowling shirt is clean?

LEAH:

I’ll wash it right after breakfast.

MARTY:

Don’t forget. Last week I smelled like old socks.

(He grins at her and exits stage right.)

LEAH: (sighs) Okay kiddos. Let’s get breakfast cleaned up so that we can get to the park, okay?

(The children begin to assemble their dishes and carry them to the kitchen sink. Leah takes a shirt from the hamper, goes to the sink and begins to scrub laundry detergent into a stain.)

 THE SCENE ENDS

(Leah is sitting at the table with her best friend Anne. Two cups of coffee sit on the table. Several children play quietly stage left.)

LEAH:

I don’t know Anne. It’s just a feeling I get. He’ll never support me doing anything outside the house.

ANNE:

Leah, you put him through school, you gave him three kids, you fix his meals, you clean his clothes. He will be alright if you take some time to yourself. He can take care of the kids for one or two nights a week.

LEAH:

But he’s never done it before and he has such a short temper with the younger ones. He’ll put a lot of pressure on Jessica if I’m gone.

ANNE:

Give him a chance. Just tell him what you want.

LEAH:

I don’t think he’ll care.

ANNE:

Why don’t you tell me what you want? Maybe it will help you clarify it with Marty.

LEAH:

(takes a deep breath)

When I was in high school, Mr. Hammond, my English teacher, told me I should write. He loved my stories and encouraged me to submit some of my work to magazines. I published a few short stories and won a few competitions. It felt wonderful! When I was writing, I felt like I was fulfilling a purpose, like I was communicating from my soul. I want to do it again. I want to start writing!

ANNE:

Leah, you deserve to do this! When you tell Marty, he’s going to ask you how you’re going to do it because you’re both so busy.

LEAH:

If he can watch the kids for two nights a week, I’d be able to get a lot of writing done. I could get dinner on the table and then go to the library for a couple hours. It wouldn’t take long before I had a few stories to send in, or even a book. I just need two nights a week.

ANNE:

That doesn’t sound like a lot to ask.

LEAH:

He’d have to clean up dinner.

ANNE:

It wouldn’t hurt him. He’s a grown man. He can clean up after himself and his children a couple of nights a week.

LEAH:

But what about Jessica?

ANNE:

She’ll be okay. Just make sure Marty knows that HE needs to be the one who takes care of things. He can’t just sit and read his paper. He needs to help her. If you set up a schedule, the rest of the family can pitch in to help.

LEAH:

I don’t know. It’s time for my children to begin to pursue their dreams. The time to pursue mine has already passed. Jessica loves to sing. I want her to keep doing that if her heart tells her she should. The time for me to make the decision to write a novel was made when I said ‘I do’ to Marty. He will never support me in this. Some decisions we make are permanent.

ANNE:

(thinks for a moment and then replies)

Leah, how are you going to teach your children to go after their dreams if you don’t go after yours?

LEAH:

(Looking over at the children as they play.)

I can’t, can I.

ANNE:

Just tell him. He’ll hear you out.

LEAH:

I hope so.

END SCENE

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Top Ten Tuesday: Candles

candle-light

I have a young friend who is struggling. She is severely depressed and experiencing extreme loneliness.

I have been where she is.

I know the pain.

There are two great lies about depression. One is told by Depression herself; that it will never end.

As bad as that is, the other lie is just as damaging, although at first glance it doesn’t seem like it. We are lead to believe that depression is just temporary and if you change your circumstances it will get better.

The first lie causes hopelessness. When you’re wading through it, it doesn’t seem as though it will ever end. Life loses all of its reason, flavor and beauty. It seems like an endless dark cave with no hope of ever seeing the light again.

The second lie, that it is temporary, leaves room for hope. The danger is that it is often a false hope. True, real, deep depression is not temporary. It can last for years enduring the voices of those around you telling you, “Come on! It will get better!” is annoying and can cause you to sink deeper into depression. Because it can last; it can last for a very long time. People will try to change. They will change their living arrangements, marriages, jobs and anything else, but the depression stays.

The truth lies somewhere in the middle. Depression can last, but if you hang on, even in the darkness, there are bright moments. There are even bright days, months, and years when depression sleeps and you awaken to light and joy.

I believe that a person can live with depression, and I believe that it you can make it a good life. Part of the secret, for me, has been the choice to notice and reflect on beauty, goodness and hope. I cling to those things. I take them out of my memory and examine them again and again. They become a candle in the darkness, lighting the way for just a moment.

And so, my dear young friend, I give you the top ten beautiful things I’ve seen this week. I hope that maybe, just maybe, my words can penetrate the darkness around you and give you a glimpse of the other side.

10. It was a dank, dark, stormy day. The steel clouds hung in the sky threatening to rain. I looked at the clock on my dash and pushed the pedal down to the floor. I was late…again. The freeway seemed to stretch on forever. I came to the top of a hill. Suddenly, a narrow slit opened in the clouds and golden light poured into the valley making homes, streets and treetops gleam like part of a heavenly city set into earthly life.

9. My hair stuck to the back of my neck and sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades. It had been over a year since I had been hiking. My legs burned, and my lungs greedily sucked air into my body. I rounded a corner and peeked down a narrow path. Water! I scraped my way down to a fresh spring shooting out the side of a stony hill. I put my hands into the crystal water and washed the sweat from my face. Drinking in the nectar of life, I let it cool me to my very soul.

8. A woman, hands shaking, stood in the wings watching the play unfold. Her part was fast approaching. “I can’t do this,” her voice wavered. “What have I gotten myself into?”

Her cue echoed across the stage.

She took a deep breath and stepped into the spotlight discovering, for the first time, that she was capable of more than she knew.

7. An infant’s sleepy eyes drift to the face of his mother as she cuddles close to him on a large, cool bed. He gives her a peaceful grin and drifts into slumber, knowing that he will be safe, warm and loved as he sleeps.

6. Clouds sweep up the face of a rocky mountain on a cool autumn morning. Gray light settles in the valley, slightly shadowing the brilliant colors of fall. I smile, sip my lavender tea and sink back into my favorite novel.

5. The sun sets on an industrial building. Individuals for the next shift park their cars and are slowly swallowed up into the vast structure. Their faces are blank, and their steps slow. The stream of people finally ends and all is quiet once more.

Suddenly, an SUV comes screaming into the parking lot and stops just feet from the entrance. A woman leaps from the passenger side. All the windows come down and small faces appear with puckered lips. She walks around the vehicle reaching to kiss each child. She smiles, shouts, “I love you!” and runs through the door.

4. A dog sprawls across the floor. A small, feverish little girl leans into her softness as the child watches her favorite show on television, feeling the warmth of her fur between her fingers. They both drift into and out of sleep; each needing nothing but the company of the other.

3. A group of woman sit around a table at the coffee shop. They laugh until their faces hurt and tears stream down their cheeks. Each of them came to the meeting feeling lonely and weak. Each of them leave knowing that they are connected to each other in ways they don’t understand. Each renewed with strength.

2. A young girl stacks blocks between herself and her younger brother. She waits, holding her breath. He swings his arm and blocks go flying and bounce across the floor. Peals of laughter ring through the room as she gathers the blocks again.

1. Whispered prayers and silent hopes are answered every day. Miracles are present in the beating of our hearts, the friendships that we forge, the peace that we find in spite of our emotional challenges, the coming of autumn, warmth of spring, kindness at Christmas, good chocolate, warm beds, red roses, pumpkin pie, and emails from friends.

This is what Depression tries to hide from us, the beauty of everyday life.

We are children of a loving and giving God.

The Universe is ours to see it as we will.

This is what experience has taught me: There is a way through. There is hope for brighter days if we choose to hold to those moments which bring us joy. Yes, they can be short and distant, but holding on to them gives us hope and reminds us that there is light in the world.

These become our candles, tiny points of light, to get us through the deepest blackness of depression.

Your writing prompt for today is to write in 100 words or less about one of your candles. Write about something that you’ve found beautiful this week.

The End of Summer

This one is going to be short. Every member of the group is going through, what can only be described as, “The End of Summer.” We’re getting our children back to school, we’re writing schedules and organizing our homes to support the added burdens on our time. Some of us are starting school ourselves and realigning our lives to fit the time for further education.

It has been an eye opening summer. I think that this group will look back at it as the “Summer of Magic.” There has been a great deal of adventure and some heartache, but all of us have experienced a growth within our soul that can only happen in the shadows of fragrant summer nights and in the wilting heat of a hot summer day. Details are coming, and we will divulge all we have learned, but for now we are weary. Our spirits have been stretched to their limits and it’s time to let all of those things distil within us so that we can share them with you.

But I will tell you this:

  • People are amazing and kind.
  • Friends are found in the most unexpected places.
  • Hugs are healing.
  • Marriages can be saved.
  • Old friends can be found.
  • New friends can understand the core of you at your first meeting.
  • Death isn’t the end.
  • Love really is the answer to almost everything.
  • Summer nights are magical and fleeting.

And you, Dear Reader, are loved.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck by us through this interesting time. (especially two husbands who would prefer to remain in the shadows throughout the pages of this blog.) Thank you to all of our readers and followers.

And personally, I would like to thank the other women in this group. I love you and you have helped me to grow in ways I would have never imagined.

2013-07-22 21.32.42

Dreaming Together

Happy Thursday Firefans,

If you’ve been with us for awhile, and especially after the last couple of weeks you have probably realized now that our group is…slightly erratic to say the least. Or rather, chock-full of ups and downs. Last week, Natalie basically made a proclamation for the universe to “bring it on.” In this Monday’s Moxie post, Lori let go of some pretty major emotional baggage. After a half-summer of soul searching, and deep in the throes of a nasty summer flu, I woke one morning and found myself nothing left to write. And in this one very extremely long, scorching mid-July week, we have all uttered the same words.

“I give up.”

We are tired for reasons that are very different, and yet oddly parallel. Like everyone else on earth, there are some days we just want to quit. Everything.

And yet…even at the lowest of low, even in the darkest of voids, there is magic. It lives amidst and among our group. It lingers behind each spoken word and floats between the lines of what we write.

It showed up this morning, in a private message conversation between Lori and I. She sent me a small section of a book she was reading, Emily of New Moon. It said:

It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty. Between it and herself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the curtain aside—but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond—only a glimpse—and heard a note of unearthly music.

That passage she sent was followed by her comment. “This is why we keep writing. This is what we must share.”

I told her I was glad she shared and asked if I could borrow the book. I needed a new one to take on an upcoming vacation. A very long vacation I wasn’t sure I wanted to take.

 And then in the conversation that followed, this incredibly magical, beautiful dream happened between us. We’re going to share it with you, let you just ever so slightly peek inside our heads to see the magic that keeps us going…as writers, as women, as close friends. As sisters.

Hope you enjoy,

~Cindy

****

Lori: When we get old, we’ll have a real vacation without children…in nature…away from everything except tea.

Cindy: and sea.

Lori: I know just the place. It’s on the outer banks, surrounded by water, shaded by trees.

Photos of Frisco Woods Campground, Frisco
This photo of Frisco Woods Campground is courtesy of TripAdvisor

Cindy: Sounds perfect. Lets live there.

Lori: We can. It’s lovely. Old small towns on the edge of the United States, tall trees, sandy beaches and ancient stories.

Photos of Frisco Woods Campground, Frisco
This photo of Frisco Woods Campground is courtesy of TripAdvisor

Cindy: Sounds like home to my soul.

We will bring old books and lavender tea. Lots of spiral notebooks and colored pens. A cat or two for comfort. Listen to classical music. And ride bicycles with baskets…

Lori: We’ll go barefoot and get up early to watch the dolphins swim just off the coast every morning.

One morning we’ll find a canoe sitting on the beach. We’ll fearlessly climb in and head out to the sunrise to see the dolphin up close. They’ll swim right beneath us. We’ll get an occasional splash from the young ones who leap out of the water to get a closer look at us.
Photos of Frisco Woods Campground, Frisco
This photo of Frisco Woods Campground is courtesy of TripAdvisor
Cindy: Dolphins. *sigh*

dolphinsCindy: We will wear big hats and own just a few long sundresses for summer, which we will hang out on a laundry line to dry in the fresh sea air. In the winter we will stoke fires and wear Irish sweaters and…EAT.

Homemade stew with every fresh vegetable imaginable. And fresh baked bread. And triple chocolate brownies.

Lori: We’ll learn how to make grits, cornbread and beans.

We’ll string fairy lights on every tree that will stand still and our neighbors will think we’re witches.

Cindy: Fairy lights. Yes. There will be so many fairy lights.

tree with fairy lightsCindy: And the very brave souls will come to our door and ask if we are…magic. And we will say yes and smile and send them away with warm soup and fresh bread and a brand new spiral notebook. Because only we can know that they are magic too.

Lori: Our grandchildren will come and visit. We’ll tell them stories about brave men and women so that they are prepared to face the world. But we’ll also tell stories of magic and light so that they know how to find it in their lives. We’ll cuddle, feed and educate and they will leave feeling fresh and renewed.

Our children will harbor within themselves a secret faith in magic that carries them through hard times. They’ll always know where they can come to renew their faith in all that is good…because we have been through tough times and found the light and are prepared to share it with them.

Moxie Monday – Becoming the Stereotype

Why is it that writers have a reputation for being scattered? Tortured, isolated, weird… even crazy?

I have been writing professionally and otherwise for years. Anyone who knows me will attest that I’m really not this way at all. I’m a pretty organized and tidy person. I’m fairly social, have friends of all types in various places. And well, yeah, I’m weird. But no weirder than any individual in her own unique humanness. weird writer

Since starting this group with my co-bloggers, I’ve met writers of all kinds. Some of them have been odd and scattered, live like hermits and spend sleepless night torturing themselves over things that only exist inside their heads. Yeah, we do that sometimes. But guess what? It isn’t just writers baby.  That personality type fans across the spectrum of people in all types of careers.

(Right now there are messy accountants. tortured homemakers, weird city planners closing their eyes and saying, “Thank You.”)

So how come writers get the stigma?

I’ll tell you why. Let me illustrate with the events of the past week.

I had plans to finish my longstanding book this summer. I’ve had the story in my head nearly 8 years. It’s something I’ve coined as “bigger than me.” Meaning, I was given the gift a great idea, and need to do the story justice in writing it well. It has driven me to take classes, read books, basically fine-tune my skills as a writer. It’s because of those things that I’ve taken several breaks from actually writing it. I’ve come a long way, and this spring I deemed the summer of 2013 as “The One.” The summer I would finally finish writing my book.

Like most writers, I’m constantly juggling three or four (or more) new ideas in the back of my mind. My Muse is pretty prolific in the offering up of new and beautiful things that inspire me to put pen to paper (or…fingers to keyboard.) It’s all very lovely, and it leads to some pretty major distraction. But I had a plan. I sat down late one night and made a list:

Stories That Have Been in My Head Since the Dawn of Time That I Plan to Write.

There were thirteen. It was a little jarring. I felt a little like a schizophrenic patient whose psychiatrist has just discerned all her various personalities. But no, even this didn’t send me reeling into that dark writer stereotype.???????????????????????????????

I bought six thousand notebooks. (Okay, well like fifteen) I made some nifty labels that represented each of my ideas,  told myself I had a handle on my Multiple Story Disorder. Every time a new idea came into my head, I’d simply write it down in the appropriate notebook. It worked beautifully.

I was on a roll. I pulled on my big girl pants and went back to the outline for my current project. I tightened it, improved it, and forged forward. I filled a couple of plot-holes. I even wrote three new scenes. Nothing was going to stop me now! Yes. This was shaping up to become The Summer.

And then the Muse asked me to dance.

I wrote something for the blog, just off the top of my head. I wrote it so flippantly, it practically didn’t even cross into the conscious part of my mind. But an idea emerged from the words I’d written that was downright life-changing.

Over the course of the next few days I realized what I wrote was not just fiction. It had deeper meaning. It was a story, pieces of my past that I had long tucked away. Parts of me left undiscovered. A story that begged to be explored, learned and eventually retold.
As soon as the idea became clear, I knew it was something that shook my very foundation as a writer, as a person. It was what I needed to write this summer.

tortured writerDespite my social personality, my organized outlook, all the beautifully detailed plans I had to finish my book, I became all the ugly writer stereotype. I stayed up all night jotting down memories and sorting out scenes in my head from over 20 years ago. I’d torture myself, second guessing whether I should even be writing this story, and how much of it was truth. I turned down friendly offers from friends so that I could spend my spare time writing. My normally tidy house became a neglected wreck, and the creativity I use to run my household and manage to work a little on the side was all spent on channeling this new story.  (Luckily, I have been blessed with an extremely understanding husband and fairly adaptable kids. And I’m self-employed, so no chance of getting fired.)

So there it is. I proved the stereotype. As a writer, for an entire week I was scattered, tortured, isolated, weird and crazy. I’m not always that way. Not often, even. But such as it is.

Writers don’t want to be type-cast any more than any human being does. But sometimes, we do it anyway. We’re willing to pigeonhole ourselves into the label, participate in the behaviors that “define us.” Because writers, like other artists (the ones who truly care,) will do whatever is necessary, stereotypes or no, to produce something meaningful.

That blog post brought Writing the Fire more publicity than anything else we’ve ever posted here. The things that came out of my mind as a result of it are some of the most powerful things I have ever written. And yeah, I was (and am) a little bit crazy in the process. But lets face it, sometimes it takes torture to get truth. Isolation to get creativity.

Crazy to get art.

Till Next Time,

~C

PS: If you liked this post, head on over to The Muses Library. It’s an invaluable resource if you’d like to learn more about, indeed why writers are crazy.

Top Ten Tuesday

Hey Firefans,

We decided to try something new this month, a weekly “Top Ten List” about writers. Whether these will continue to be humorous, sarcastic, or downright bitter, I simply cannot predict. Coming from our group, I suspect you will see a bit of each.

This one is based on a few things I’ve come across during the last year- having admitted to the world that I like to write fiction. Lots of polite-yet-unsettled smiles and awkward silences at family picnics, if ya know what I mean. So I thought I’d start with a list of our quirks to get this stuff out there in the open, hopefully save a fellow writer somewhere a little embarrassment.

Top 10 Things You Probably Didn’t Know About Fiction Writers

10 – We compare real people to fictional characters. (Sorry about that one folks. It’s morally unjustifiable. We know. But it’s truth.)

9- We have imaginary friends. (Otherwise known as fictional characters.)

8 -Writers are not afraid of hard work. Most of us have other jobs, and besides writing is really *&#*#! hard work, most of the time!

7- That being said, there is such a thing as self-induced writers block. And procrastination can be friend as well as foe.

6- We do not wear sweaters all the time, own multiple cats, and drink coffee religiously. Eduard “Santa” Gorey and kitty.

(Well…I do adore a good cardigan. By pure coincidence, I own two cats and and… Okay can we just scratch this one?)

5- All writers are not grammar freaks. We write incomplete sentences, misuse apostrophes, change tenses inappropriately all the time. We have just become adept at finding mistakes and fixing them before you see.

4 – We don’t always write what we know. I mean, really? That’s like going to an amusement park for the first time and only riding the parking lot shuttle.

3 – You probably aren’t in our novel.

(Along with this, please don’t ask us if you can be in our novel.)

2-  Some modified version of something you did or said at any given moment in time is probably in our novel.

Including you having asked if you can be in our novel.

 

And the Number One Thing You Probably Didn’t Know About Fiction Writers…

1-  Most of us aren’t writing to get published, get on the NY Times Bestseller list and become famous authors drinking imported Italian coffee and buying diamond studded collars for our rooms full of cats.

We aren’t writing because it’s a hobby either.

We’re writing because, as Gloria Steinem said:

“It’s the only thing that when I do it, I don’t feel like I should be doing something else.”

Until next time,

~C