Too scared to write, like spooked-scared

I scare myself.
There are certain scenes I just can’t write when my husband is out of town.
I can’t edit or re-read them either.
My husband finds it ironic that I can talk about such a morbid side of human nature — about bodies and decomposition, about methods of murder and causes of death — without flinching, with fascination even when he is home.
I can recount details of lifeless bodies I’ve seen — what they looked like, what they smelled like — with a certain scientific detachment. It doesn’t bother me. Sometimes, my husband says, I even sound a little obsessed.
But that changes when he is not home.
On those nights, I rarely write.
I prefer to play Angry Birds.
I can’t be the only one.

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