As some of you know, we had to put our cat Smokey down a couple weeks ago. It was one of the saddest days of my life. She was in my arms when she went to sleep and never woke up. It was quick and painless. The ground finally thawed enough for us to bury her last week. I visit her daily.
Writing Onyx has been one of the hardest endeavors I have ever undertaken. Not because the book is terribly complex or that it will be the next great American novel, but because of all the death that has occurred while I’ve been writing it. First was my Uncle Charles. Then my grandmother. Now Smokey. It feels as though I set out to write a book about death and the universe set out to make me grieve.
I don’t know what more I can say other than I am so sick of death. I’ve been fighting it for years, keeping it at bay. Only for it to continuously return like a familiar cold lover that knows exactly where to turn the knife to deal the most amount of pain without killing me.
Perhaps that is why the road to Briar Ridge has been such an arduous journey. I don’t like going there because it hits too close to home.
Don’t get me wrong. I love Onyx’s story. Her life was full of love and was taken too early. Her sister Raven is not the sharpest crayon in the box, but she is growing and writing her is fun, when I can actually place myself in the chair and jot everything down.
You read that right. I haven’t finished writing Onyx. It is scheduled to launch April 18th and I haven’t even typed ‘The End’.
I’m terrified.
I want to cry.
But more importantly I want to make my deadline and nothing, not even death, can keep me from achieving my goal.