I can write.  It’s what I do. Stories, poems, novel ideas and fragments pour out of me like rain through a downspout.  All the other stuff?  The eating, the sleeping, the being a person in the real world?  That’s much harder. I know I must rewrite and rewrite and edit, and rewrite again and polish the manuscript, and have someone else read it, and edit again before it is ready to submit.  Then find someone to submit it to and hope they like it, and wait for them to respond.  Maybe yes, maybe no.  If no, then it has to be done again. I long for the purity of the writing itself– just getting lost in the flow.  Writing until my hand cramps completely since I write with pencil and paper. I must write, or I cease to function.  I’m a writer.

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