Writer. Photographer. Child of God
She heard him moving around the room, but didn’t know what malevolence he planned until cold wet drops began to steadily drip onto her feet. She clawed the covers off herself and put her face in his. “What do you want from me?”
"Amy watched the faint flames twinkle in the stones of her wedding rings until, one by one, each wasted tea light sighed their deaths in tiny puffs of smoke."
The longer I write fiction, the more I realize that my version of "write what you know," looks like me working through my trauma by writing it. The first time I knowingly wrote my trauma into a story was when I wrote about a character being molested. It was supposed to be her story, part... Continue Reading →
Rachel Svendsen 