I had a dream last week. I was in a concentration camp. In other death camps the guards would use the prisoners to grow vegetables or do heavy lifting. Here, one guard told me, they didn’t need us, and we would die.
So I organized everyone, and we taught people how to do little tasks, things like making sure the guards hut always had wood, or cleaning the compound. I assigned two prisoners to each guard, to study and see how they could make the life of the guard easier. Then, after a time, when it seemed that the guards were becoming accustomed to help, I would kill the prisoners helping them. And we would start again.
I had to teach the guards to miss us, to see us as human, to want us alive instead of dead. To do that, I had to kill what was precious to me, to show them what was precious to them.
When I woke up, I started editing my novel again.
This is my writing; to write so engaging and with such an interesting plot that you don’t see me reaching into your head to kill your innocence and cut off your eyelids so that you can never close your eyes again to what I see.
Linda says that darkness is my gift. I don't blog about darkness. I want it to sneak up on you (buy my book Zed, and have a nice day!)
Back to work.
1 day ago