This passage is taken from Chapter 10 of Wergild, the first book of my Seer of the Sidhe series. The dagger was long, about the same as my forearm, and beautiful. I guessed fairy-make, but it could have been anything from djinn to merfolk. The hilt seemed inlaid with a deep jade enamel, with an intricate scrollwork of silver over it. A straight blade, and nearly the same width as the handle. On one side of the steel, the stamp…
I am such a perfectionist, and such a do-er (my sisters would call me an overachiever) that I forget to let myself and my work just be. I convince myself I am not doing enough, or I am not doing well enough. The merry-go-round in my brain just can’t let it rest. I’m either a terrible writer or I’m not giving my best. That kind of self-condemnation is destructive. And paralyzing.
What lands do separate –
Nay, what words, indeed!
For I know not that which
Can bridge the distance ‘tween.