In the birch forest we sliced the paper bark from the trees,

and took them home to line Easter baskets

I have a novel in my head and it’s been there for years and it’s tearing my pretty scalp-flesh apart trying to escape. But I keep shoving it back in and sewing the wound shut and I go another day without writing it. Another year. Another lifetime.

Its been in my head since age everyage and ever since she died it’s been pounding in my brain HARDER and HARDER and HARDER.

But Nana’s Cabin goes unwritten. And she is dead and I do not honor her. And I am terrible. And I am done.