I spent yesterday working on a new piece for my book. (Don’t you love that … “my book”?) It was a piece about Scout.
I hadn’t planned to write any new pieces about Scout. I wanted to pen a few new funny pieces, maybe even let Bandit tackle those. But I a dream Tuesday night, and I woke up with this piece almost written.
So I wrote it.
And I cried.
I cried as I thought about it and I cried as I wrote it and I cried as I rewrote it. Then I drank some wine.
Signing this book contract was good for me, because it’s forcing me to finish a project. But I didn’t expect it to be so catharic emotionally. It’s been a year and half since Scout died and it’s still so fresh, so raw. Even though I’m surrounded by dog love 24/7.
Writing and wine … better than therapy …