My Writing Process

The whistle blows, drawing my attention. I get up from my desk and make my way over. The kettle’s starting to scream by the time I get over to my kitchen. My own fault really. My home is a mess. I get out a mug after pulling the kettle off and setting it on a back burner. I turned off the stove already. I can still hear it singing as I get my cocoa powder measured out. I pour in the hot water, allowing it to flood the grainy chocolate mix. When I’m satisfied with the volume, I grab a spoon and start stirring with one hand while the other puts the kettle back down. It's the end of summer, sure, but it’s hot out there. I’m crazy they say. They don’t know the half of it. I finish making my cocoa, swatting away at the swarm of fruit flies that invaded my kitchen last month. I haven’t been able to eat fresh food in a while because of it. The bugs mess with my head.

I make my way back to my desk. My art supplies surrounding me, along with my bears. Not real ones, but stuffed ones. I wouldn’t want to make a real bear suffer by having it put up with me. I’m always surprised my mate puts up with me. I set my cup down on the desk and turn towards my laptop. The dark liquid ripples at the new pause. I have many documents open on my computer. Some for research, some for class, and some are for stories.

I start with the class documents, starting to work through my list so that I can get where I need to. I need them to be finished so I can get into the masters program I want. By the time I’m done with the first document, my cocoa has cooled down. I save the document and check it off my list. I have time for this list, and glance at the clock. It’s noon. I’ve been up since five last night. I still have so much to do. I move onto the next document, shifting it aside. Today is one of my sun days. I work at night now, the moon as my guide. Today and tomorrow I will be up by the light of the sun. I have plans that can only be done by daylight.

I sip at the chocolatey liquid in my mug. It’s an old ceramic mug my grandmother had gotten me when I first went to college. It makes me feel better about myself, with my head’s constant thrumming. It’s hot outside. I’m still drinking cocoa. The cocoa is creamy despite having been powder and water not even an hour ago. I’m out of cinnamon and whipped cream. It would have made it better. I keep aiming for this one taste but can’t get the right measurements. I’m close though.

I burn my tongue. I always do. I don’t care anymore. I’ve been doing it for years. I pull up one of my research papers and look at the creature in a chair nearby. He’s not my mate. He’s a subject of study though. He sits across from me and studies me, just as I study him. He’s not human. Not entirely. Not anymore.

He is there, but he isn’t there. He talks while I type. No true sound escapes his lips, but I hear all he says nonetheless. I describe him in great detail with the keys under my fingers, flying quickly as words form on my screen. Every word he says flows like water while my fingers sound like raindrops hitting the roof. When he finishes talking, I look back over to where he was sitting, and he’s gone. Once more, just a thought.

I sip at my cocoa again, taking a moment in time to check reality again. It’s still there. It’s still unstable to me, but it’s very much real. My head pounds as I sip at the cocoa. Headaches are normal for me, even when I stayed in the daylight hours. But I digress.

I save the file I’m working on and look it over once more before closing it. Half my mug is still full of the chocolatey liquid. I pull up the next file. I look at the chair nearby for my next subject. She’s a timid soul that acts tough because of how she lives. Life isn’t friendly to her. I always apologize when she shows up. I made her. I made her pains. She will never know me as her parent, but I’m the one who wrote her into existence with a dash of my pencil and the typing of my fingers on a keyboard. I know her better than anyone, and yet, like the man before her, she practically writes herself.

I write her words, her description, her story. I write all of this, tears threatening to fall from my face as I let her pain show in my words. I’m the monster behind all of my stories. This is because I’m the one who wrote the horrors that she and many others face.

I pause. Only because she notices my state and points it out. I scratch absently at my arms. It feels like something is crawling on me, but nothing is there. I drink more of the cocoa, keeping my nose in the mug, taking in the scent. The dizziness I feel doesn’t bother me as much as people think it should.

I was always ill. No one knew or noticed until I was an adult. They didn’t listen. They didn’t notice the signs. Unfortunately, all my illnesses have infected my subjects. All those who had been created by me now suffer with me. I don’t know if that makes my stories worse or better as I gaze at the girl who holds my emotions from growing up in a war. The man before her held my emotions of caring for those around me despite feeling alienated for no reason at all. At least, none that others could have known at the time.

I finish the cocoa. The dredges are always the worst, as that’s where the cocoa powder stays more like a powder and tastes the worst. I go back to typing. I finish her story, or at least, her part for now. I save it and put it away. I rinse my cocoa cup so that the flies don’t get in it.

I check the kettle and fill it where I need it. I put it on the burner. I turn it on again. I wait for that whistle once more.