This image makes me happy, even though I've never had it for myself. My books are therapy meant to handle this lack. The reasons for it. The wish it had been a part of me. Joining with someone to face the world together instead of alone. The understanding that this was never possible in my life.
I have been unto myself it seems like forever...and sometimes it just makes me so tired. Weary. I think half the reason I'm writing Carli's Kills, right now, is to try and find that fuck you attitude of Carli's is somewhere within me, and it's not proving easy. I find myself continuing to drift back to the slow shift to decency and humanity, and that is not right for this story.
I'm so done with fighting for an HEA in a world that is nothing but fiction. Filled with people who really, honestly do not give a shit. And so...I'm going back through what I've written and digging to bring that attitude forth in the full story. And my biggest enemy to this is myself.
This is an issue I was having with A Place of Safety. Brendan is fighting to have a life unto himself and not be caught in the hate swirling around him...and finds that it's just not possible. There is no such thing as a safe place for humanity. Never was. It always will be a struggle.
And the older you get, the more it will affect you.
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