13,000 words. Over 1/4 done. Back at the computer tonight to see if I can knock out at least another 1500.

I’ve found that a cup of hot tea and a scoop of gelato – such an unlikely combination – can help me to 2,000 words in 90 minutes. 2,000 GOOD words, mind you. I was writing last night about what I thought would be the most difficult part for me: my doppleganger’s involuntary admission to the psych ward for supposed suicidal tendencies. That really happened to me. It was a GODAWFUL time in my life, probably the worst few days I’ve ever had, and it went from my brain right onto the screen. I had superpowers. I almost didn’t have to type.

Yes, it’s still a fictional novel and not a memoir, but that particular chapter is as true-to-life as it’s going to get. Here’s a little bit:

Bree sat down on the floor, right where she’d been pacing. “Go away,” she said to the charge nurse and Nicole. “I want to talk to my parents.” They walked out and left the door open. Her father began speaking before Bree could. If she kept acting like this, they would think she was unstable and the doctor would keep her here, he pointed out. If they think you’re a danger to yourself, he said, they won’t let you go.

“But that doctor lied to me,” Bree choked. “He lied to everyone. I wouldn’t hurt myself.”

“We know, sweetie,” her mother said, speaking for the first time since they arrived. “Your dad and I believe you. But you have to calm down or they won’t believe you and they won’t let you leave.”

Nicole came back in the room and handed Bree a plastic cup of water and a box of tissues. “Dr. Wang will be here in the morning for rounds. We’ll talk to him then. I’m sure we can clear this up.”

Bree drank the lukewarm water and swallowed thickly, unwilling to believe. She was beaten. She’d be here forever. If this was what that jerk doctor had sent her here for, he’d won. She was broken and stuck. Her parents stayed until visiting hours were over, standing by helplessly as the charge nurse took away Bree’s cell phone, the razor in her shower kit, and the belt she was wearing. She asked the nurse sarcastically if her drawstring pajama pants were a hazard to her health and Nicole had stifled a laugh. When they left her alone for the night, she was not allowed to close the door. Someone came in every thirty minutes to make sure she was still alive. Not only did that shitty doctor lie about her being suicidal, he lied about this being a place where things would be calm. It was stark and scary and discomfiting. Everything she looked at was cold; there were no curtains and she couldn’t pull the lamp by the bed for reading because the cord was too short. She’d never realized how many small comforts were considered potential means of suicide.