The novelist is exhausted. Whole worlds suggest themselves to her but that is all. The worlds do not appear. They do not come ready-made. They do not exist. They require focus and time and attention. The worlds must be pulled forth. Forged.

The novelist is exhausted. Characters whisper in his ear and run through caverns in his mind. They are mere glimpses, shadows that must be captured, examined, and word by word turned from slip and sliver into clay.

The novelist is exhausted. The worlds and characters must palpitate, conflict, concur, act and react, breath and bleed and weep.

The novelist is exhausted because the details that join these things require consciousness as they tarry in the unconscious, wistful faeries concealed by too much darkness or masked by the squint of too much light. The glimmer and the shadow must be shaded or lit just so.

The novelist can’t show too much. The novelist can’t show too little. The novelist is exhausted.

The novelist is exhausted because these forces demand a rightful place but breakfast needs serving and dishes need washing, the school bus is coming and the meetings begin at nine. The bills need paying and the power or cable or internet company need today to be more than just a functioning service provider. The realtor has a deal and the travel agent has a question about the plane or the train or the bus you want to take to the hotel you need to book.

The team needs coaching. The phone needs answering. The garbage is full and the milk carton empty. The plants need water. Don’t forget to exercise. The holidays need proper decorating. The television, even, makes demands.

The family needs time to laugh.

The novelist is exhausted because whole worlds are scratching about inside of him or her alone, eager for a shot at existence, competing every day with everyday life.

The novelist might be heroic but for exhaustion.

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