Motherhood through narrative prose

I used to think writing was fun. You get to create. You take nothingness and turn it into a leaving, breathing word child. Writing can make you a mother.

Well, now I feel like I'm hella preggers with 40 pages of doom and all I want is this demon word child out of me.

So I'm in a library today, writing things. I don't plan on getting home until very late at night. I have to breathe life into Untitled Document. In the next 48 hours I have to perform CPR on a blank page until it can say something on its own. Fucking literature. If only away messages could be classified as narrative prose...

(Converting creativity to ideas, ideas into words, words into stories, stories into Word documents, Word documents into grades, grades into my future.)