You don’t have to write while you’re in quarantine.
I’ve been seeing a lot of posts about how you should get off of tumblr and take advantage of your newfound free time to work on your WIP.
It’s undeniable that it would be a great opportunity to do a lot of writing, but also… If you don’t want to write, that’s okay.
If you’re trying to write, and you can’t, that’s okay too.
Nothing is wrong with you, you’re not a failure, and you’re not a bad writer for not writing. It’s a stressful time right now, and there are a lot of valid reasons to take a break.
You can write if you want to. You also don’t have to write if you don’t want to.
Be kind to yourself, take care of yourself.
Don’t let the internet pressure you into doing something you don’t want.
Your writing will be waiting patiently for you until you’re ready.
There are strange things in the world. You do not want to encounter them.
The first one is in the corner of your eyes. It’s in the corners of your house, and you can’t get away from it. The echoing shrieks of children follow it, as does the sharp smell of alcohol. t’s slow, but somehow it always catches up to you, and no matter how you try to get rid of it, it won’t go away. At night whispers can be heard. They tell you that you’re worth nothing, that it would be better to give up. The whispers come from it. You can’t get rid of them. You can’t get rid of it. Do not listen to it. Those who do are found dead in their own homes, blood on their own hands.
The second one chases you through empty white walls. It laughs and tells you to slow down. Why are you running? It drips with blood and wields steel instruments. There are no victims here. Ignore the screams coming from the other rooms. You can’t stop running, but there is no way of getting out. The halls stretch endlessly, white, white, red crosses and splashes. Do not let it catch you. The ones that are caught are not seen again. At least, not in one piece. Still, it’s satisfied with its work, with the effectiveness of its treatments. Look how many people are being helped.
The third one hides. You can’t tell there is danger at first. It speaks to you, seems friendly enough. But once you’ve been drawn too close, once you’re invested, you start to notice things off. The smell of smoke and blood, the way it moves just off enough. There is a glint in its eyes when it asks for an odd favor. And another. And another. They keep getting more dangerous, but it promises you it’s all for the greater good. You think it really believes that. But do not fall into its trap. Cut ties before its too late, before it is in your mind. Those who don’t end up taking the fall.
The fourth one likes to lurk in the distant forests, the distant mountains. You see it following you, a shadow with a Cheshire grin whose face you can’t see. Mist weaves around it; it smells of the dead mulch on the forest floor. It calls to you. It promises you what you want most, and if you agree, it will deliver. All it asks for is an appropriate price in turn. Do not agree. Those who do will find their deepest wishes granted, but they will waste away without reaping their benefits. The mist starts to smell of rotting things. It does not stop grinning. Every soul taken is more power.
The fifth one is impossible to hear coming. It walks in silence, thread trailing from its limbs. You see it coming, and try to flee. Strings are woven into nests like spiders’ webs, invisible to the eye but sharp enough to slice skin. Color seems to drain from the world as you struggle, and break into a run. It’s no faster than you, but you can’t tell where it is. You may slow down, thinking you’ve outrun it. Do not lower your guard. And remember to look up, look for it dangling from its own strings, waiting for you to forget. Those who relax find they can’t breathe, their bodies responding to others’ commands.
You do not want to encounter the strange things in the world. The five who will cause your end, take your life, mind, and soul.
Yet there’s still another. Even the five are afraid of it; they do not speak of it unless in hushed tones. It hears the call of its name. Do not speak it. You feel like you are being watched. You are. The humming of electricity means it is nearby. Your eyes start to bleed. You hear voices in your dreams. You start to think that maybe it isn’t too bad. Your head pounds, and you snap to your senses. The screens of your TV, your computer, your phone constantly break and their speakers shriek of static. The knives in your house are somehow placed on your table. You have no memory of what you did yesterday, but your friends say you got in a fight with intent to kill. You are pleased about that. You hate that you feel that way.
Do not encounter the last one. Do not attract its attention. Do not give away that you know it is there. Do not feed it. If you do…