What's it like to write, to really write? To start with a single word on a blank, virginal page and add to it? To watch this child, grow and mature, page after page, until at last you look before you and you've borne a work, purely from the bits and pieces in your head. What's it like to look upon this body of work and know that you created it, breathed life into it? And how do you then offer it up for the world to tear apart or elevate to godhood as it chooses?
Once I know the answers to these questions- do I dare to create? Or leave those creations inside of myself where they'll be protected and nurtured and never subject to the persecution and torment and lamentation of existence?
Do I even have time to worry about any of this?
Once I know the answers to these questions- do I dare to create? Or leave those creations inside of myself where they'll be protected and nurtured and never subject to the persecution and torment and lamentation of existence?
Do I even have time to worry about any of this?
