Submitted Date 01/07/2019

She put her head down on her desk, and felt the despair burgeon in her heart. She had seen the bookstores full of countless books by never-heard-of contemporaries. She was aware of the thousands of writers, young and old, who struggled and strove in writing their prose. She had read on the different types of publishing and on marketing strategies. And she was aware, now, that there was no way she could use any skill or strength of her own to even match any of these contemporaries in prominence.

Writing used to be such a joy. "Such a joy" was an understatement. When she was a child, with no pressures of "making it big" as an author, of needing to find steady employment, or of "establishing her brand," she would simply play by herself through her silent words. The adventures, the surprises, and the laughs never got old. What happened? Why was she now sitting at her desk, trying to force herself to sit down and write and dreading to put words on the page, like it was some assignment?

Was it a signal to give up? She needed to make money. She didn't have a co-creator with her books anymore. She didn't have . . . well, she did have an imagination still. She also still had her will. Yet, in a sense, she thought as she still sat thinking without touching her quarterway-written notebook, it may even be helpful to just "give up." Just forget about it.

Perhaps, only then, in the privacy of her own mind, without the distractions of those groaning about the ugliness of first drafts, of impositions of how-to-write advice, or of an uncomfortably high and futile ego, she might enjoy writing her adventures again.

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