Sometimes, I can’t type words fast enough. My brain bleeds them through my inadequate fingers. Other times, my stories come in a leisurely smolder.
It’s all there upstairs in my brain but refuses to come out eloquently for some time.
I have no control over this. It frustrates me, infuriates me and keeps me up at night, as if an entire novel is just sitting, stuck, on the tip of my tongue.
Bear with me while I dive into more books, sometimes, I can’t control the pace at which they develop.
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