Yes, I've written a book.
Yes, I wrote another.
Yes, there's a third.
Of course, two-ish untested manuscripts attract dust in a bin.
That doesn't make me an authority.
That doesn't make me write any more.
That doesn't make me happy.
That doesn't make me think I could do any of it again.
They were just something I wrote.
I will probably write again.
I may write quite a bit.
I may just think about writing quite a bit.
I may just think about nothing.
Then there's Octavia.
She did what we all do.
Even though she was famous.
Even though she had it going on.
She still needed to remind herself.
Write down why and how she should write.
Reframe the self-doubt, the weakness of spirit.
Push herself to keep writing.
Because, fuck, this is lonely business, and sometimes it gets you nowhere except inside your own head.