I feel like a humanity traitor. Everyone is off to do things on this lovely sunny Saturday, and all I want is to dive back into the winter in my book and write about two more murders. In fact, this feeling is painful. It physically squeezing my stomach. This anxiety. I hate it. It's the fear of somehow daring to do what I love when everyone else is going out.
And now I better stop freaking out and start writing. Or else.