I have a friend – sad, I know, only one – and that friend asked:
Why do you write, why continue to write when it all seems so futile?
The question took some time to mull over, and I had to toss a few glib answers out the window (defenestration at work – and yes, the window was open, we have a nice, cool day today).
And the answer is:
Why do I write? I write the stories I’d like to read.
Where to start?
There are millions of books out there, why not just read them? Surely some must be the books you’d like to read?
There are so many books, and I’ve read a lot of them, and what I’m finding is that a lot of the books aren’t fitting my needs anymore, so I have to write the stories I want to read.
It doesn’t make sense –…
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