me: i’m a good writer. i know my worth and i’m confident in my skill set and i know i can do this.
me, five minutes later: what if i’m terrible? what if everyone who has ever read my work and thought it was good was lying? too afraid to tell me the truth? blackmailed by aliens? what if everything i write is terrible and too scattered/forced/hollow what if i don’t know how to make a sentence. where do verbs go. how do u emotion
In a house of seven women, it wasn’t exactly curious that Lizzie was unable to find any type of privacy at any time of day. She had gratefully accepted her mother’s offer to share quarters, leaving the younger five to split across two bed rooms, though it did mean squeezing into the only room even remotely available in the cramped terrace house. She was just grateful that unlike at Christmas time, she was able to seep in an actual bed this time, even if it did mean sharing with her mum. Beth Woodville had carved out a sliver of her overstuffed wardrobe to accommodate her daughter, and had cleared a spot on the dresser just below the mirror for Lizzie to arrange her beauty products and personal belongings.
So, really, it was far from surprising that, after Mary had initially answered the phone, Lizzie had chosen to take her rather unexpected call in the minuscule garden, hemmed in on all sides by a timeworn brick wall and not exactly out of earshot of the kitchen window. She’d parked herself on the shallow steps that led down from the patio area to the scraggly yard, and shrugged off her red cardigan.
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