I’m afraid my pen is broken.
I know. I know. Say it ain’t so, but it is.
I’m working on a story, the second in a series, and I’m brimming with ideas. It’s not an easy story to write. I’m taking a character who was seen as a real bastard in the first part, and turning him into a completely sympathetic character.
It’s great fun, but as I was doing so this morning, by psycho roommate blew a fuse and caused me to lose the draft. I know I should have saved it.
That is not the point.
The point is she blew a fuse because she was running the AC. In September. In New England.
So, I blew a fuse and I could not write anymore.
Because anger broke my pen.