“I can’t write this book,” I tell the mother again.
She continues with her story as if she knows I will write this book.
“She was trapped,” she gestures toward the collapsed wall, “in her crib. And she was standing up and smiling and saying ‘Mommy!'”
“I can’t write this book,” I say again.
“And I knew that when I left her, she would die.”
I look deep into the mother’s eyes and see so much sorrow. It is enough to jolt me awake.
I’ve dreamt books before. Usually I wake up an grab for my notebook. This time, my first thought is I can’t write that book.
When has “I can’t” been a frequently uttered phrase for you? Did you? Could you? What happened next?