Don’t Just Bleed. Hemorrhage.

8733875890_a377fe7bb8_mSomeone once asked me what writing was all about. I was tempted to answer in superlatives of prose Рa fulfilling reverie, a cathartic epiphany, a literary orgasm that leaves you happily spent.

But, I bit back the momentary gush of verbiose. For writing is none of those glorified, intellectually rarefied and abstract moments of feathery flourish that people will have you believe.

No, writing is far messier. It’s about having your nose to the grindstone, not knowing when the grinding will stop. I remember laboring over one of my manuscripts for ten months. Yes, you read that right. TEN MONTHS. That’s like eons in writing years.

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