CaitlinDBurnside

THE blank page stares back at me, a silent, patient companion. For over forty years, this has been my therapy, my sanctuary. The clack of the keyboard is a steady heartbeat, a rhythm that orders the chaos of my own mind. It calms me, focuses the whirlwind into a single, flowing stream. THERE was a time, after the losses that hollowed me out, when the page remained blank for months. The words had dried up, buried under a weight too heavy for sentences to lift. Grief is a poor muse. YET recently, the world has felt… strange. An odd pressure in the air, a collective unease I can’t quite name. It’s in these darker, unsettled days that I’ve returned to my oldest friends: my characters. Not for a blog, or a vlog, or a journal for anyone else to see. For the pure, private act of it. Like a parent retelling a favourite bedtime story, I revisit their lives. THEY live in a world Centuries old, their Histories intricate and sprawling. I don’t force it. I simply sit with them. Some...