I hear that there’s another world out there. A land of sky and sun. But I’m not sure. The only world I see right now is the imagined world of words, as I scramble page by page to meet the deadline for my second book. This story has twisted and turned beneath my pen, struggling to be born. Sometimes I think this must mean that there is a greater truth, just below the surface, waiting to be discovered—if I would only dig a little deeper. Other times I think it means that I am a fool. That I never should have attempted to play this great game of words.
This, I believe, is the life of the writer. Working, but never quite seeing the finish line. Hoping, but never quite attaining that high goal.
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