Writing is different for everyone. When I am rolling, I am disconnected from the world around me. My brain is a white hot fire. My fingers sprint over the keys – the kind of sprint where you are running so fast that you are convinced you are moments from toppling over, yet the fingers land. When I am taken OUT of this reverie I become unreasonably angry. I do not act on the anger. But I seethe. The sharp teeth of retribution whisper in my ears.
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Celebrating Independent Authors