Being a writer, an artist isn’t romantic or exciting in the least. At times. Here it is three in the morning with wake up at six-fifty and I can’t sleep because I realized the most recent novel doesn’t begin right and I’m actually stressed out about it, something that’s not even real or wasn’t until I created it. And I don’t care if that’s a run-on sentence, cause if this ain’t insanity, what is?

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