After creating four complete manuscripts I am finally tip-toeing out of my cave, knocking away the cobwebs, and blinking into the sunlight.
At times it still seems so far-fetched that I (why me?) could be a published author, to think that I have anything to contribute in a world so stuffed with superior talent.
Yet I continue to do it.
If, years from now, someone comes across the hundreds of thousands of words I have typed, and asks me why, I'm not sure what I will say. Because I wanted to, I suppose. Because I happened to come of age in a time in history when my most basic needs are met and my labor is easy, and so I can. Because I love words and stories. Because the crafting of them flows through me and out of my fingertips. Because I believe in the power of a story as much as I believe in the power of a living God.
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I'd love to hear your thoughts. Please comment if you feel led and I will do my best to answer it. -R