Why do I spend so many hours writing something
that may never be published? Rewriting and deleting thousands of words
and days of work? I ask myself many times … is this hopeless …
shouldn’t you do something else … you should stop annoying
Facebook with your endless diatribes on writing … what if this is all
for nothing … shouldn’t I focus my heart on a different job that will
actually pay? All these questions sit with me every morning as my
fingers strike the keyboard. The logical answer to every one of these
questions is a resounding yes. But my heart cries no no no. It is my
heart that puts me right here every morning, with only my cup of Folgers
black silk coffee and my Pixar style lamp for company, to dream at my
cluttered desk for a few more hours a living dream, a dream that one day
a child might find the courage to face the great disappointments of
this life by cracking open the pages of this hopeless book… that one
day this child might find light and deem it beautiful. And so I keep
typing. I keep writing. Every day. Here. Hopelessly here. In the dark.
waiting for the morning light.

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