Once upon a time there was a woman who wrote. She was born with the gift of story though none could honestly say if it was a blessing or a curse. It was definitely a compulsion. She had to write. On the days she didn’t write the words would pile up in her head until she wander around mumbling to herself and arguing with her characters.
Strangers often looked at her like she had gone mad. To prevent this, because she did not own a white jacket and was not interested in acquiring one, she wrote. She wrote during every spare moment she could catch. She scribbled down words on scraps of paper at her place of employment. She typed prose as soon as she rolled out of bed in the morning. She outlined characters on dinner napkins. No matter what else she did or where she went, she wrote.
One day as she finished a story she sat back and sighed. Something was missing and she wasn’t sure what it was. She thought for awhile and realized that while she had dozens of stories and poems all they did was sit in a drawer. They had no purpose. They need more. They needed an audience. Once she came to this conclusion she decided there was only one thing left to do. So she shared.
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