It’s humid such that if you put a straw up and sucked, water instead of air would come into your mouth. It’s humid such that if you swept your hands in the air a couple of suspended droplets would wetten it. It’s hotter than its humid. Sun’s right in your face. Sun’s merciless.

Air conditioner’s out of commission. Room cooler that uses water to cool the room (look up Pakistani room coolers on Google) is making the humidity worse and the room no less hotter.

I am drenched in sweat and blood. And some otherworldy muck that I have no name for.

It’s hell. That’s no overstatement. It’s hell and it’s worse than the one we’ve read about because unlike that one, which seems a distant possibility depending upon whether religion is real or not, this one is nigh and right now and its hot. Did I mention it was humid too?

I’m writing. I’m writing. I’m writing and I’m writing unstoppered because not to do so would be suicide. What else do I do? take a bath? Go to some other room where there aren’t my books and my writing desk? No. I’ve already called the air conditioner guy and he says he’s on his way if he feels like it. Yeah, that’s the kind of ego those turds carry here. They’ve got your lives in their hands, and that’s no overstatement either. People die from heat here, and those poor sods can’t even afford air conditioning.

I write and I write, and I’m sweating and crying but I’m also laughing at the words of my creation and I’m laughing and dying because they’re so wonderful, the words. Not these ones that I’m writing on my blog, no. This is work that you will never see or read and neither will I after I’m done writing it because this work belongs to the clients for whom I’m ghostwriting and I can’t share any details with you because of NDAs and other legalities, and frankly, I’m fine with it. Any opportunity to write, ghost or not, is an awesome opportunity.

The heat, the pain, the anxieties, the heartbreaks that are oh-so-dreary are lessened and reduced to  distant white noises in the background when I’m writing, barely audible, barely there.

There’s no other way.  Ray Bradbury said, “not to write, for many of us, is to die.”

Stephen King said, “not to do so would be suicide.”

I’m beginning to see what they mean. I’m there.

Peace out.

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