When I don’t write, Guilt makes her home in my bed. In my flesh even. She crawls up my back and stays there. An uninvited guest in my space. She incessantly talks, telling me all the reasons that metaphor won’t work. She snorts and turns up her nose at my plotlines. Calls my ideas foolish. She spitefully watches me carve out sentences and then shrieks with delight as she presses Delete. Then I wonder why I began in the first place, and Guilt finishes the thought by telling me, “It’s because you were foolish enough to think you could.” Guilt tells me I should just stick to teaching, that a living cannot be made out of this laughable craft. At least not by me. Craft, humph. You first need skill, she says. Guilt tucks me in at night, then holds me face down on the pillow in the morning. She eats all my sweets, leaves nothing good for me. Thankfully, Guilt has packed her bags. For now.