It all changed when I realized I'm not the only one on the planet who's scared. Everyone else is, too.
I've always been intrigued by the power of secrets. When is it justifiable to keep them from the ones we love? And does keeping them irrevocably change who we are?
The writer has to force himself to work. He has to make his own hours and if he doesn't go to his desk at all there is nobody to scold him.