I gave a reading at a bookstore a few weeks ago that went so well I was invited back. After the event people came up to tell me how much they loved my work. And I caught myself thinking, this is why I write, isn’t it? (Spoiler: it’s not.) The first time I shared my fiction was in a creative writing class my senior year. It was a demented story that ended with one character cutting out the other’s eyes. (Yes, I’m in therapy.) Word spread quickly about my sensational story, as things in high school do. Popular kids who typically ignored me were suddenly running up, asking for a copy, begging me to let them read it during fourth hour. And after fourth hour they’d rush up, telling me how much they loved it. The attention was intoxicating. I wanted more of that— people being in awe of me, people
Beautifully written. And written with love.♥️I definitely don’t place myself in the same level of writer as you, but when I don’t write I too get grumpy! Let me know when you are doing another reading. ✨
Beautifully written. And written with love.♥️I definitely don’t place myself in the same level of writer as you, but when I don’t write I too get grumpy! Let me know when you are doing another reading. ✨
Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?! Grateful to you for reading and sharing Rock. ♥️