The past four articles that I wrote never really got to see the unrelenting traffic of the cyber world or the relatively peaceful waters of my webpage. They were written, rewritten, rejected and frowned upon by the merciless critic that sits inside my skull.
I have been going through a rather long phase of creative inertia that has taken an undeniable toll on my sanity. It is quite correct to say that a writer's mind is the most cluttered space you can possibly find. Ideas have been floating around in my head like directionless rafts setting out to cross stormy seas and torrid oceans, only to sink, unsurprisingly, into dark nothingness.
There has, however, been a singular story that has magically managed to remain afloat despite the sadistic tidal waves that have hit my mental shores and ravaged my creative centers.
It is now my job to take this story and see it through to the finish line.
I shall never forgive myself if I let it go.
I have been going through a rather long phase of creative inertia that has taken an undeniable toll on my sanity. It is quite correct to say that a writer's mind is the most cluttered space you can possibly find. Ideas have been floating around in my head like directionless rafts setting out to cross stormy seas and torrid oceans, only to sink, unsurprisingly, into dark nothingness.
There has, however, been a singular story that has magically managed to remain afloat despite the sadistic tidal waves that have hit my mental shores and ravaged my creative centers.
It is now my job to take this story and see it through to the finish line.
I shall never forgive myself if I let it go.
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