The budding novelist listened to the storm rage on through the morning and paced off countless steps. An entire box of pencils was chewed through during that time; a dozen pencils meeting their doom between the teeth of a frustrated writer.
Nothing came. No words strung themselves together. The wordsmith was empty. The word slinger was out of ammunition.
Staring out the window again, angry questions began to rise. “Why can’t I write any more? What’s wrong with me??”
But it really came down to just one very simple question.
To borrow a phrase, “Why are the words always gone?”
Nothing came. No words strung themselves together. The wordsmith was empty. The word slinger was out of ammunition.
Staring out the window again, angry questions began to rise. “Why can’t I write any more? What’s wrong with me??”
But it really came down to just one very simple question.
To borrow a phrase, “Why are the words always gone?”
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