The dark, dismal, hopeless kind. Where your eyes are heavy and you'd rather bury yourself beneath comforters and pillows than move. Your heart is so weighed down with grief, you force breath in and out of lungs too weary to breathe any longer. Yes, it's sunny outside. Yes, you should be grateful for life, health, home, family, love, support, yes, yes, yes. But for a few minutes THAT DOESN'T MATTER. You're falling, sinking, grasping, then recoiling, then grasping and -- nothing is within your grasp. You pray more. Sobs wrench your body. No control. Like everything else in your life -- everything still out of reach. Nothing changes.
Praying. Sobbing. Your prayers -- same ones, same because the anguish is ever present. Like everything in your life that remains the same.
Waiting there for you.
God, will it EVER, EVER get better?
You keep waiting for the day. The hour. The SECOND something improves and STAYS better.
I write YA books. Whatever my heart desires, I write. I don't have someone over my shoulder, in some office somewhere telling me what I can and cannot write. Or should and shouldn't write. I listen to my heart, the center of my muse, and trust my instincts.