(Continued, kind of, from last week…)
Ever since I can remember, so let’s say “a very young age,” I had this fear that I would do something that would completely count me out; end me. I used to be afraid that I’d accidentally kill someone when I was sleeping (sleepwalking murders were a thing to be concerned about in the early ‘90s if you ever read about Halcion in your parents’ Newsweek, which I did), or commit some other kind of involuntary heinous crime. And there I’d be, the object of a shared social hatred; the reviled one, the hideous beast, Cerci doing her shame walk to the Red Keep. Take what you will from the following statement, but: I’m pretty sure in some former life I was definitely a witch that was burned at the stake. All of this makes my particular career choice both obvious and a specific kind of death instinct.
When I first started writing in 2014, my fear around having any kind of opinion that was not wholly accepted (by everyone) was mammoth. Before there even was …