I am writing a novel in which children are kidnapped. One of my characters is a 35 year old mother of two... and while I am writing my son starts whimpering and I go to him and rub his back and snuggle him a little to settle him and give him his binky so that he falls back asleep, one arm clutched around Bear.

And I feel horribly guilty for what I am doing to my mother character. I cannot imagine how it must feel, how the fear must taste like scarlet in one's mouth. Watching my children gives me ease... I love these little pieces of myself. My darlings.