Some stories just need to be told.
They simmer and fester inside the writer’s brain until they begin coming out in
of every pour in the skin, every medium of the psyche. Soon, even dreams are
filled with images of the story. The daytime hours can accomplish nothing,
because the story is there. The story haunts the very recesses of the writer’s
mind, tugging and pulling, asking, no, begging to be let out.
When the story first began to take
form, it was merely an infant, a fetus in the writer’s brain. Any attempt to
give birth to the story at this state would have been a blatant abortion or
premature birth. No good can come of this kind of delivery.
But then, one day, before the
writer ever even notices it, the story has grown so much that it must soon immerge.
It won’t wait any longer. Despite all of the pressing activities and events of
life, the story will not wait. A story really is a very selfish thing. It must
have its way, and have its way it will. Who is to stop it or stand in its way?
Not me.
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