I spent the weekend writing a 1000 words Historical Fiction piece. It had to be set in a penthouse, and a can opener had to physically appear.
While I thoroughly enjoy the genre, it’s not one I’m a strong writer in.
The intensity of these weekends is real, and not because of the deep dive into the history of penthouses or the research into the invention of the can opener.
It’s that for 48 hours, I become someone else entirely, tell their story and then let them go.
You’d think I’m an expert by now, but tomorrow, I’ll feel off.
