How I Fight the Creative Resistance

The closer I get to finishing my book, the stronger the resistance gets. I am Frodo, crawling up Mount Doom, the weight of my precious book dragging on the ground beneath me.

I’ve been working on writing the ending. I’ve been saying this for the last several weeks. I’ve been saying it since the edited portion of the book was sitting at around 30,000 words, and now I have 50,000 words that are completely locked down. I honestly think I have 5,000 or less to go. I’m nearly done.

And when I’m done, I’m going to burn it.



This is the most common thought I hear whispered in my mind. Burn it. This voice has progressed in violence over the course of the 18 months I’ve been working on this thing. It started by letting me know the book probably wouldn’t get finished, but that was okay. Then it let me know that writing a book was really hard, and maybe I wasn’t cut out for it. Then it started in on some character defamation: Who are you to write this book? Why would anyone want to read something you wrote? And now, as I near the end of it, the voice is starting to have a high-pitched panic to it. When you finish it, you must destroy it.

I know I’m not crazy. I know this is all part of the whole creating gig. I know it’s because I’m afraid. I’m afraid people will hate my book. I’m afraid people will love my book. I’m afraid I wasted my time writing it. I’m afraid that it will get big enough that I’ll have to devote more time to it after publishing it. There’s a lot of fear in this thing. But that doesn’t mean I’m weak or helpless, because I also know that when the fears are big, my courage is big. So I keep hitting the page. I keep putting words, one in front of another, into the places they belong. And I’ve hidden all the matches in the house.

In case you might be in the same place on a project you’re working on, here are a few things that have helped me keep pushing to the end:

1. Make a Promise to Someone You Care About

I wouldn’t have started this book if not for half a dozen friends who asked me to write it. One of them has continued asking about it every few months during this whole process. I keep her updated on my slow progress. As I’ve continued working, more friends have learned about this project. Now I have several people asking me about it. “How’s the writing coming?” If they ask in a large group of people, I’m suddenly the local celebrity who is working on a book, and now I have an extra dozen people waiting for it. Still, when it comes to writing the end, it’s because of my friend Sarah. It’s because she wants the book. Maybe she even needs it. I don’t know, but I’m writing it because I promised her I would.

2. Have Someone Else Set a Deadline for You

In my last post, I talked about the reasons to hire an editor. One of the best things that has come out of this decision for me is the deadline.

I love deadlines. I thrive on them. Rather than sending me into a swirling panic, they give me a laser-sharp focus. I know exactly what I have to do to meet this deadline. However, if I try to set my own deadlines, they don’t work. Last Fall, I told myself I would have the book finished by the end of the year. Did I? Nope. I did get the third draft done around that time, so it wasn’t all bad. My next deadline was in April. I was going to have it published. Did I? Nope. Not even close. Now, I have to have this book to my editor on October 1 to squeeze it into her busy calendar. Am I going to finish it? You bet your sorry deadline-avoiding tail I am. I wouldn’t let my editor down.

I’ve discovered there’s a trick to this: you have to be more afraid to fail the deadline than you are afraid of the book. And if you’re not afraid of the book, what in the world are you writing it for?

3. Celebrate Early

Now, this may not work for everyone, but I have this psychological thing about making stuff even. I don’t like to do things if I haven’t earned them (which explains a whole lot of my issues, but that’s a post for another day). I tend to be stingy with myself. However, I decided several months back that when I published my first book, I would get a tattoo.

That might not be what everyone else plans to do, but I had a little stick figure tattoo that I got during college that has needed to be covered up with something lovely. I had it in my head that I’d publish the book, I’d go out to celebrate, I’d have a drink or two, and I’d get some fresh ink. I’d even started asking around to find out where I might get it done locally.

Then an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime thing happened. A tattoo artist was coming to visit a friend of mine and had agreed to set up a private tattoo session. He only had a few openings, so if I wanted one, I had to get on the list, fast. This was a month or so ago. It was one of those moments, similar to the one when I booked my editor. “This is it. You have to take this opportunity.”

I got that tattoo done last Sunday. It’s beautiful. The artist was amazing. He gave me a full color rendition of the owl and feather quill my brother had designed for me. It’s a tattoo that declares I am a writer, and it’s big, and it’s colorful, and it’s not going away.

It’s also the tattoo I was supposed to get after I finished this book. So now I have this debt weighing over me, and it’s visible (and kind of itchy and peely at the moment). I have not finished the book, but I already accepted my reward. The world is out of balance. I must rectify this. I have to finish.

4. Tell Everyone You Know

This goes along with the first tip, but it’s a little different. The first one is about someone who actually wants to read my book. This tip is about all my friends and family who probably won’t read it, but love cheering me on anyway.

I hate being embarrassed. I know there are a lot of writers out there who don’t deliver. I know there are a lot of times I haven’t delivered. How many times have I told people I’m writing a novel or a screenplay? And I was! I wasn’t lying. But for the first time, when someone asks what my book is about, I can tell them. I can pitch it to them in a few sentences, answer any questions they have about it, and then accept any of their ideas or criticisms without feeling like I’m being a total poser.

This is the thought that keeps me away from lighters in the house. Because I know, thanks to the huge number of people that I’ve talked to, that this is a good idea. It’s a good book. It’s something people want. It’s something people might need. It’s from a perspective that’s a little different. And the more I talk to all of them, the more courageous I get about it.

So when I hear that voice telling me to burn it, I think about my friend, and I think about the fantastic editor I have waiting for me, and I look at that tattoo I got in advance of all of it, and I tell that voice to suck it. Because this book is going to be finished within the next week and then put out into the world where I’ll have no control over it anymore. I hope it helps people.

Really? Wouldn’t you rather play video games today?

Shut up, Resistance. You’re dumb.



Five (Psychological) Reasons to Hire an Editor



Look at that red pen for a moment. Does the sight of it make you squirm? Are you having flashbacks to junior high, when a teacher handed you back the best paper you’d ever written with a hundred illegible scribbles all over it? Does the idea of red ink give you anxiety attacks?

Some writers see the word “editor” and freak out.

But if you are planning to make it as a writer, especially in the current publishing climate, I highly recommend hiring an editor. I’m not going to tell you all the great benefits of having your work edited. I’m sure you already know how typos and poor sentence structure can turn your 5-star plot into a 2-star dud on Amazon. I’m sure you understand that having someone else read your work can help you spot errors you couldn’t see, no matter how much you like correcting the grammar of others.

Today, I’m going to tell you why your writing will improve from hiring an editor before the editor ever touches your work.


Reason #1: It’s a Confidence Booster


I hired an editor in mid-June. I had been waffling about the idea for months. I knew what editor I wanted. I had been following her for some time on Google+ and knew that she worked on books similar to mine. She has a great reputation in the editing world. She’s the type of editor who sleeps next to the Chicago Manual of Style and geeks out about etymology. For many months, I knew that if I was going to hire an editor, she would be the one I wanted to work with.

For all those months I wished she was my editor, I never felt that I was good enough to be one of her clients.

One day, I saw a post by her that said she only had  two open slots left for all of 2014. This was back in June, when there was still half a year left to go. I knew I wanted to get my book finished by the end of the year. Suddenly, I had a choice to make. If I was going to have her as my editor, I needed to book one of those slots, and I had to do it fast.

When I contacted her, she seemed just as excited to work with me as I was to work with her. She had been following my progress, knew I was working on a non-fiction book, and said she looked forward to working with me. Well, then. That’s nice, isn’t it?

If you have an editor in mind to work with, don’t be shy about contacting them. They might be looking forward to working with you, too.


Reason #2: You Get a Built-In Deadline

I’ve been working on this book for 18 months. I have friends who expected a copy last summer, then at Christmas, then in the spring. But all you writers know what it’s like. I’ll write a book! Sure! Then you get sucked in to the black hole of YouTube, and you haven’t written a word for weeks.

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Maybe you’re more disciplined than I am. Well, good for you. I freely admit to needing some outside assistance.

Since my editor is booked through the end of this year and into the spring, I know my October 1 deadline is fixed. I know I don’t get to smudge this one. I know this is my one shot for this editor for this book. And you better believe I’ve spent every free moment working on my book since then. Well, beyond writing blog posts and dorking around on the internet for breaks, I’ve been working.


Reason #3: It’s Proof You’re a Real Writer

Up until now, you’ve told people, “I’m working on a book.” Neighbor kids think that’s the coolest thing ever (until you tell them what the book is about). Some of your friends might think it’s nice that you’re working on a book. But if you live in Southern California, like I do, and you tell people, “I’m a writer,” they say, “Oh, me too!” Everyone is a writer. It’s kind of nice, really. But at the same time, there’s this longing to be “a real writer.” Sure, I have some short stories published (doesn’t everyone?), but that’s as far as those conversations usually go.

But in this case, I have an editor for a specific project that I am completing in less than a month. And for some reason, I feel less defensive about trying to convince myself that I’m a writer now. Your threshhold for being a “real writer” might vary from mine, but being able to mention “my editor” in a conversation is just the kind of name-dropping I need to feel validated. Is that evil? Possibly.


Reason #4: You Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

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I’ve been writing as a serious hobby for over five years now. I’ve written four rough drafts of novels, three screenplays, hundreds of flash fiction pieces, and a dozen short stories. Some of them have been published. But I still feel weird when I talk to anyone who says, “I’m writing a book.” See #3. Sure you are. We all are.

By hiring an editor, I’m putting my money where my mouth is. I’m saying, “Not only am I writing a book, but I’m finishing a book, paying someone to help me clean it up, and then publishing it.”

This is the furthest I’ve been on this journey so far. It’s a stretch. I was happy to just be writing a book for all those years before. Now, I want people to be reading the book. Hiring an editor is the next step on that journey.


Reason #5: You Have to Step Up Your Game

Before I even considered hiring an editor, I was halfway through the 4th draft of my book. It started as a mush of disconnected thoughts that became coherent over two complete rewrites. I knew this would be one of my final drafts when I came to it, and I’ve been working on it with a polished final draft in mind.

However, knowing the caliber of editor I’ve hired and the other clients she works with, I realized I needed to step it up. Good enough isn’t good enough anymore. This better be my best, right now. For me, that’s not a paralyzing feeling but an encouraging one. I know I can do better. I know that I was slacking a bit before I hired her. I also know what I’m doing now is the best I can do right now. And I’m excited to see how my editor will help my work become even better.


There you have it. Five reasons to hire an editor. I still have a month left to finish this book and get it to my editor, but my work and my confidence levels have already improved just from making the step to hire her.

If you’re nearing the point of needing an editor for your work, and you have someone in mind, I highly recommend you contact them to talk about how you can work together. And if you’re not quite there yet, I bet you will be if you keep working. Happy writing!


Things I Do When No One Is Looking

writing mantras

I woke up this morning in the mood to do something with paper and paste. I collage. I don’t consider myself a collage artist or anything like that. In fact, I tend to think of my collages as a bad habit, something to keep hidden away. I make collages the way I might read a trashy romance novel: in private when no one is looking.

I started by making a couple of inchies. These are each 2-inch squares of cardstock that I decorate. Why? I don’t know. I hang them up like miniature artwork all around my desk. The three I made today represent two of my favorite mantras. Trust the Process. Nothing is closing. The third is a comment I received (twice!) in a conversation I had about a book idea. I had never read a more encouraging string of six words than that. I’m taking it.

Then I started looking through my collage book. There is only one page that has a date on it, and it was from late 2007. I’ve been working on this book for over 7 years, in private, when no one is looking. I don’t work on it that often. I usually get the paste-eating craving a few times a year. Then I drag out all my magazine clippings and ink pads and paints and Yes paste. I make a page or two, then clean it all up and put it away (under the bed. This is how secretive this little hobby of mine is).

Today, I looked through it all, and I realized something kind of awesome. This book of mine is becoming a body of work. Some of the pages are terrible, and I still grimace when I look at them. But some of the pages are still fun to look at many years later. Some of the pages mean something different than they did when I was making them. Some of the pages make me laugh. So today, I’m going to share some of them.

My earliest pages were only one page, usually with one image and a statement of some sort. As you go further in the book, there are more two-page spreads that seem to be drawing a comparison/contrast with two things. I really like these. To be absolutely honest, I never come to the page thinking, “I’m going to make a statement with this.” I sit down with my paper scraps, grab whatever catches my fancy, glue stuff down, ink stuff up, and then giggle or scoff at it later. I have drawings in crayon, oil pastels, colored pencils, and broken ink pens. I have no idea why I do this. I think I’ve only ever showed this book to one person before today.

And now I’m posting it publicly on the internet. But I’m still hiding my supplies under the bed.


In Which I Realize the Importance of My Writing by Losing It All

I just had quite the scare.
I was going to gather together a couple of my flash fiction pieces for a submissions call, so I opened up my Writing folder on my computer.
There’s only one item in it — the book I’m currently working on.

I searched through my other folders and all four of my drives. Nothing. I have an entire folder full of prepared manuscripts that I’ve submitted — my best stories. I search for it by name. No results found.

I start retracing my steps. My husband built my desktop as a Christmas present. Shortly after that, we started preparing for our 1,000 mile move across the country. My old computer had a failing hard drive, so I pulled everything off from it in a rush. Obviously, I failed to retrieve my writing folder.

Cue existential crisis. Five years of writing. Gone. Thankfully, I love paper, so my best short stories are printed and in a folder. But not my flash fiction. Only one of my novels. None of my screenplays.

Maybe I’m okay with that. I felt that all that work was practice, after all. I know I’m a better writer now. But hell if the thought of losing ALL of that isn’t extremely painful. Besides, the work I did last November was good and I was planning on getting back to it when I finish Blueprint Homeschooling.

Then I remembered that I used to do most of my writing on my netbook. I also kept my writing folder backed up there so I could work anywhere. I fished the netbook out of the closet and loaded it up, praying the whole time. I couldn’t remember if I’d accessed my writing via the network or if I really had duplicate copies shared across my systems.

I may have felt like crying when I saw it was all there. Not deleted. Not gone forever. All my craptastic writing still exists to remind me how far I’ve come. I’m relieved. And slightly mortified. Now this means I have to do things with those old stories.

I hope you all have backup systems in place, writerly people. And I hope you take better care of your stories than I do. I keep mine locked up in a cage in the basement, when they should be allowed to run free in the wild. Poor stories. I will make it up to them. I will love them and care for them and find readers to adopt them.

Do you have back ups in place? I’m certainly glad I was using Windows Live Mesh before it went defunct. I’ll be adopting better systems in the future!


Acceptable Encouragement

A few days ago, I was paid one of the highest compliments I’ve ever heard in my life. A writer who I respect and admire read through some of my work and then said, “I hate you. You’re too talented and you should have released a book already.”

That seems backward, I know, but it was big for me. And it started me thinking: why do I accept some forms of encouragement but not others? Why do I look at things like this ecard and think, “this is relevant to my experience”? 



I have a few extended family members who have always seemed to be encouraging. I always hear about them bragging about me. Usually, they’ve exaggerated my talents and they’re quite fond of introducing me to people with those talents attached. “Let me introduce you to this fabulous person. She’s a concert pianist. She’s also a published author.”

Now, I PLAY the piano, and I’ve had a few pieces of flash fiction published, but I’m already uncomfortable at an introduction like that, because it’s dishonest in its intent. And here’s the thing I’ve realized about it: it’s all about the person introducing me. I have become an object at that point — a talented freak to be flouted at dinner parties. Have these people heard me play the piano? Probably. Have they read any of my work? Probably not. And now I have the uncomfortable job of letting them all down lightly. “No, I’m not a bestselling author. No, you’ve never heard of me. No, you’ve never read anything I’ve written. No, I’m really not that special.”

The most humiliating berating I ever got was at the hands of one of those family members. After hearing I had changed majors in college, he told me, “You are a failure to this family. You have made a liar out of me. I’ve been telling all my friends that you would be a famous composer.” Well, no, you made a liar out of yourself by trying to predict the future. But do you hear what’s at the heart of it? This person couldn’t care less about me. All he cared about was that he could somehow attach himself to my possible success. He was already profiting from it by bragging to all his friends about how special and amazing I was. Was it nice that he had confidence in my talents? Maybe. Maybe not.

That particular brand of encouragement, repeatedly consistently over my lifetime, has been more harmful than good. I consider it discouragement, really. I tend to feel uncomfortable around the people doing it, and inside I’m usually thinking, “I am not your performing monkey.” I often do less work after that, rather than more. I don’t want that kind of attention.

So now, when someone compliments me, I tend to shy away from it. I might say thank you, but inside, I’m suffering an odd mix of emotions. I don’t know your intentions. If you tell me I’m good, I know I could be better. If you look at me with those “Wow, you’re so talented!” eyes, I feel like a freak of nature. I don’t know if you’re going to start inviting me to parties just so you can introduce me as “this woman who does those amazing things I was telling you about.” I’d much rather hear that you like my work or that it inspired something in you. Better yet, talk to me about your own work or process, and we can build each other up to do our best.

Writing all this down is strangely therapeutic. I’m chuckling when I realize I’ve come to the conclusion that the highest form of encouragement for me is to inspire jealous hatred in the people I admire. Whatever. I’m just happy I found something that works. 

What encourages you? Do you remember a time when someone said or did something that greatly encouraged you?


Another Comment I Need to Save

This one comes from a friend, who wrote this to me after I shared some feelings about feeling like a failure on my 35th birthday (which came and went last month). I appreciate her wisdom in writing this, and have decided that “Nothing is closing” is going to become one of my tattoos — along with “Trust the Process” and the pi symbol.

Don’t panic. Age is just a number. You have a whole year to be 35. You have a whole 5 years before you’re 40. Then another half a lifetime and most likely more to do the things on your todo list before you even sit your butt down in a grammy-gaming rocking chair (I assume you will have a grammy-gaming rocking chair for playing Playstation 16 games on) in front of a bookshelf of ALL the freaking books you’ve written and challenge your grandbabies to a game they will certainly lose because of your mad skillz. Please remember to trash-talk them, for me. 

The Germans have a word for this feeling…torschluspanic (which I am not spelling correctly). The word literally means “gate closing panic” it’s the feeling we get when we think our opportunities are diminishing with age, or that we haven’t achieved our goals. Nothing is closing. Birthdays make some of us weird and introspective and then the self-judgement starts flying. This is why I dislike birthdays. 

Instead of berating yourself. Add up all the things in the plus column. I have seen a lot of things in your life this year that are movements forward, onward, upward, coolward, whateverward to greatness. We all get weird about stuff. We’re all weirdos. Happy almost birthday, birthday twin!

What’s the best advice you’ve ever received? And do you get weird about birthdays?


Something I Wrote that I Want to Read Later

I was having a conversation with an online friend yesterday. He was in another of his drunken philosophical moods, and was lamenting the fact that he couldn’t spend a day in Hemingway’s shoes. Hemingway is always the guy writers think of as the successful one — the super manly man they all want to be. Why? I don’t understand it. Every time I read Hemingway or something about him, I feel a sense of relief that I never had to live his terrible life or have any sort of interaction with him.

I commented on my friend’s post, and realized that some of the advice I was writing there was to myself. So, lest it get swept away in the ocean that is the comments section on social media, I’m putting it here for posterity.

It’s always nice to think of the “success” of someone like Hemingway, until you realize that he had electro-shock therapy to try to cure his crippling depression, ended up losing all his memories, and then killed himself by putting a gun in his mouth.

Maybe that’s something you have in common — that you have to deal with the way mental illness affects you and your writing (Hemingway’s father committed suicide, as did his brother and his sister). And maybe you even medicate in the same way, with alcohol. So the question is, are you going to let it destroy you the same way it destroyed him?

To be honest, I think your decision to care for your son is better than the legacy of brokenness Hemingway left for his descendents.

And yes, fate is cruel and defies even our most passionate attempts to get out of its entanglements. The greatest power we have against it is to make peace within our own lives.


Creative Ebbs and Flows

Hello (hello)… Is there anybody out there?

Several years ago, I decided that I would have a book published by the time I turned 35.

In April, that date came and went, and still I have no book.

Sometimes I set goals that seem to make sense at the time. They seem to be far away. They seem to allow enough time to do everything that needs to be done. But they don’t account for real life.

I like to imagine that if I were a full-time writer, I’d have all my ducks in a row. I’d leave the house, go to my creatively decorated shed (like Roald Dahl’s), and spend the day coming up with awesome things that would be loved by people around the world. However, when I have two hours free, and I know I should be writing, I do chores. I don’t know why. If I’ve decided I won’t write, I at least play video games or do something fun. But if I think I should be working, then I’m reorganizing junk in my apartment. I think it’s a form of self-torture by procrastination.

I’m on the 4th draft of a book now. I have beta readers sending me messages and asking when the book will be ready. This is a good place to be. But those last steps, which seemed so small a few months ago, are SO BIG right now. When in the world am I going to do all of this? I need a cover (I have a cover). I need multiple different formats for epublishing (once I get it typed in, I can do this with a few clicks). I need a website (got one), and a blog (started one), and a platform (got that, too), and, and, and, and…

What I really need to do is keep getting the book typed in. (I wrote draft #3 by hand.) But when I look at the notebooks filled with my chunky scrawl, it doesn’t seem that easy. Forget that I’ve been working on this book for over a year now. Forget that I’ve diligently written 3 complete drafts of it now, and it really is almost finished. Forget that I’ve put in over 150,000 words on it. It still feels hard right now.

I’m tagging this post naval-gazing. I apologize that you had to read it, but I really had to write it.


A Dangerous Man

I found this story lurking in one of my writing books, and did a little polishing to get it here. This is for #FridayFlash. I hope you enjoy reading it!


image by code1name at sxc.hu

Carl Murphy looked harmless, with his white socks pulled halfway up his shins and one hand in the pocket of his plaid shorts. Not even the well-worn Metallica t-shirt gave any indication of his true danger. When he walked into the dilapidated house, several people looked up to smile and wave. 

“Yo, it’s Murphy! What took you so long?” A man with stringy blond hair walked up and gave him half a hug, holding his cigarette at arm’s length.

Carl nodded a greeting. He didn’t even need to talk anymore. His strength was in being both charming and vague, attaching a wisp of personality to his constantly changing face.

“Here, man,” said another guy, this one sporting a well-trimmed goatee and a pair of greasy cargo pants. “We saved this one for you.” Goatee held out a small roll of paper, a fresh joint.

Carl took it with a smile. “Thanks, man,” he said. No one ever used names. It was part of the scene. In his mind, they were Goatee and the Scruff, but ‘man’ and ‘dude’ tended to get the job done. 

Carl took a moment to glance at the crowd. He recognized a few faces from previous gatherings, but not all. He wouldn’t feel bad for any of them, except maybe a few of the girls. The girls looked young, too young to be here, but old enough to know better. 

The Scruff shoved a purple lighter in Carl’s face. Carl smelled stale cigarettes and saw the yellow stains on Scruff’s fingers. They matched the yellow stains on the man’s teeth. 

“Fire it up.”

Carl looked at it, feigning suspicion. The Scruff leaned in close and half-whispered, half-shouted the words Carl was waiting for. 

“White Widow, man! There’s more where that came from.” Scruff lowered his voice slightly. “Pierce scored three pounds today. We’re gonna be rich!” He broke into a chortling laugh that ended in a painful-sounding cough.

Carl grinned, but not for the reason Scruff intended. Carl avoided looking at the door and kept his anticipation secret. As he waited for the imminent raid, he fingered his police badge quietly in his pocket.


An Exercise: The Reluctant I

This is a writing exercise from The 3 A.M. Epiphany, which is probably one of my favorite prompt books of all time. I did this as part of Rowan Cota’s Writing Exercises in the Google+ Writers’ Discussion Group. If you’re looking for good writing community, I highly recommend this one. I enjoy the resources and encouragement that people are sharing there. (Disclaimer: I’m a moderator of that community, so I’m mostly biased. I wouldn’t be a moderator if I didn’t think it was a fantastic group, though!)

This is the very first exercise from the book, and involves writing a scene from the first-person perspective, but only using the words I or me twice in the entire 600 words. Feel free to join in and try your hand at this one if you’d like! Here’s mine:


I was not on shift when they brought Jane Doe into the hospital. The others said it had been a hard night, full of the twists and turns of life and death. They operated on her through the night, while the nurses spoke with police officers and detectives who were on a desperate hunt for clues and next of kin.

They found no one. There was not a trace of identity to Jane, nothing to reveal that she had, in fact, existed at all. No photos. No dental records. No finger prints. Nothing matched. The only evidence of her existence was the fact that she was found half-dead in the road by a good Samaritan and delivered to the hospital.

The Samaritan offered no clues either. He was a gentleman of 60, not a Samaritan at all, but a man from Detroit who had taken a wrong turn on his way to the Stadium. There was a game that night. There’s a game every night of the week, it seems, based on how many people come in talking about the game.

“What’s the score?” they ask.

“Try not to move, sir,” the nurse says. “The doctor needs you to stay absolutely still while he stitches that wound.”

“Somebody in this place has to know the score!”

The score is the most important thing. It’s the thing that keeps them all motivated. It’s their reason for getting up each day, for going to work, for coming to the hospital to have their bleeding stopped and their wounds stitched. It’s always about the score.

Even the Samaritan that wasn’t a Samaritan only stayed for a moment. He disappeared before signing the paperwork, before anyone could question him or identify him or find out where he’d found the half-dead woman or why he didn’t call 911 or how he found the hospital at all if he was lost on his way to the stadium. These were all the questions he left unanswered in his search for the score, and that’s why Jane Doe still lies in my ICU ward with no identifying connections at all.

The nurses tried their best. They worked all night. The hard battle was written all over their faces the next morning. The score. That morning, life was winning, but the game between life and death was close.

Jane Doe still holds her slim lead in the game. She looks as peaceful now as any of the other patients, as though she has quietly forgiven the injustice enacted upon her. The gashes on her face have healed to tight little pink lines. The rest of her wounds are closed now, and no longer need packing. Her body is alive, building and repairing itself. 

It’s only her soul that’s still missing.