Death Sentence

The word count has reached a critical mass. I wouldn’t be able to stop now even if I wanted to, and the sheer magnitude of the manuscript forces me to sleep less and less.

When I finally sleep, I dream about running, not away from something but towards a door or gate that is ajar. It closes just as I reach it, no matter how fast I run, and I wake up on sweaty sheets in the kind of silence that follows a scream. For a long time I lie there, listening, unable to fall asleep again.

It wears me out. I write in a haze. Sometimes I can’t even remember having written the sentence I have just concluded with a full stop. And, from time to time, I don’t recognize the tone that colours it. I take this as evidence that my project is succeeding, my filter has definitely gone, the words flow without being weighed or measured by my vanity or pride, as if they have been written by someone else – something inside me that urges me on and keeps me going.

I’m ready for the final sprint; this is it, from now on it’s going to get very difficult.