The Write Feast

Recently, I started reading a book on creative writing.  The first few pages offered some solid advice.  I found it all rather intimidating.  The author says that a writer writes and that when a writer starts writing for themselves they find their voice and the real creative work begins.

Writing for myself has seemed unusually difficult lately.  My voice must live in an unexplored land.  It’s foreign territory.  The ground feels soft and squishy under my feet.  It’s just like Alaskan tundra.  It spends most of the year under layers of snow and ice.  When all the snow and ice thaws it becomes a carpet.  Stepping on it feels like walking on a mattress or one of those insane rope net bridges strung across some remote South American gorge.   I can’t look down.  I just have to hang on and keep going.

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I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.

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The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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