Originally posted at Dead Darlings.
Last Thursday, I had a total breakdown in the Harvard Square post office. I was in the process of writing a message to my dad in my debut novel, Cottonmouths, which I was about to mail to him. This isn’t out of the ordinary for me. I’m a highly emotional person and cry at commercials and old men on park benches. But this was totally different. For the past few months, I’ve been wondering what’s wrong with me because all the other writers I know who have published a book have been emotional and I have not been emotional.
Am I dead inside? I must be dead inside.
