The Trek of Life
Mental health is a subject I both enjoy and loathe talking about. I’ve found sharing my experiences with others is both incredibly cathartic and uncomfortably vulnerable. Which is why I love fiction writing. It often feels safer to explore tough situations, traumas, grief, and shame through the emotional distance a character can give. But fiction is not a substitute, it is a tool. It is necessary to face real discomfort in order to heal.
The black cats watched her from the window. Every morning, at precisely 7, Luce Freydis walked past the towering, dark Victorian mansion on East Elm Street, and every morning exactly five black cats watched her, heads swiveling slowly on stiff shoulders. Five prim gargoyles framed in velvet green curtains.