Today, I tell my hawk-eyed therapist that I have new idea for a novel, and I’ve been writing everyday.

It’s freaking brilliant. It’s a fantasy. You know, like sword and sorcery.

What kind of power does your hero have?

She talks to cats. I grin.

She talks to cats.

His unenthusiastic monosyllabic response makes me feel stupid. Maybe my idea isn’t so brilliant after all. My disappointment must have shown on my face, because he follows up with a smile.

And, of course, your hero is a beautiful, independent, strong, smart Filipina.

That goes without saying, I reply.

We laugh. I feel brilliant again.

I elaborate, Her cats are all named after my hunter’s cats in WoW.

I thought you had quit that game.

I rejoined my old guild, too. I missed my friends.

He frowns. And how are you getting along with your co-leader?

I’m not co-leading with him anymore, so I don’t have to talk to him as much. I’m keeping up my boundaries. I’m not going to play unless I want to.

Well, it is voluntary, he says.

It’s supposed to be, but sometimes, playing WoW feels like a job.

WoW is what my therapist and I talk about because I don’t want to talk about the hard stuff.

At the end of therapy, he tells me that I’ve been delightful, in a lively mood.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you finished your novel?

It would be awesome, I say.