She could only watch him, silently noting that she should be doing something to help him, ease his suffering somehow, but she couldn’t. All she could do was feel shades of some sort of compression. Time passed. All those moments and days and everything in between seemed to just press together, bound with dreamless sleep.
I do have a writing routine. Monday through Friday I go to work from eight to three then I come home, eat, and afterwards write. I usually write until 11. On weekends I wake up, eat breakfast, write for three/four hours, take a shower, eat again, then write for the rest of the night. Once I finish a piece, I edit it with the same routine.
There’s been a wonderful influx of new writers into the horror fold over the last few years. From all walks of life. Diverse, intelligent writers with their own stories to tell, driven by how they view their world and fuelled by their backgrounds and experiences. I think we’ll see a break away from some of what is considered horror, with more emphasis on cosmic horror, body horror and cross overs into noir. And, of course, the horror of a post-apocalyptic world, with the political climate and the environment. It’s a very sobering thought that this last one might be more fact than fiction.