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I crack open the book and run my hand down the page. Thecontrast of the black words on the ivory colored background fill me with asense of excitement and longing. I bring the book to my face and close my eyestaking a deep whiff.
Someday, I tellmyself, someday I will be holding my ownbook in my hands. I read a few pages and ponder on the wonder of the waywords can be strung together to create masterpieces. I close the book and holdit close to my chest for a few moments.
How many have gone before me? Millions at least. There aredays when I think about the numbers, when I get overwhelmed at the thought ofeverything I have to go through to get my book into my hands. I am determinedthat today will not be of those days.
I set the book down and walk over to my desk. Jiggling the mouse, I stare at the blank page before me. Theblinking cursor taunts, begging me to spill my thoughts and feelings on thepage. I tap at the keys, but few words come. I sigh and lean back in my chair. Maybe you're not meant to write. That littlenagging voice says in my ear.
I catch sight of the book I just read in the corner of myeye. Somehow that author did it. They worked hard enough and they havesomething to show for it. I bat awaythat nagging voice and rest my hands on the keyboard once more. I'll stay hereall night if I have to, as long as it takes for me to get over my insecuritiesand write.
Because whether I'm meant to or not, that's what authors do.