Back when my children were babies, they got to an age where people suggested a “lovey,” a transitional object, meant to give the little guys something to snuggle with that isn’t my husband, me, or more accurately, my boobs.
Once again, I find myself gestating two babies: my book and an actual human child, currently two weeks out from D-Day. This happened two years ago too, smack in the middle of the Novel Incubator.
Shh. Please be quiet. I am killing someone right now and I need to concentrate. This is most definitely pre-meditated – I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. I love her, I really do, but I can’t be around her anymore.