So, I wrote a book.

I can’t say it was an easy thing. You hear of these writers regurgitating ink out onto their pages at incredible rates, a feat I’ve yet to accomplish. Even reading on forums of individuals with the superpower-like ability to churn out word counts in the upper thousands per day seemed impressive but off putting. It just wasn’t me, no matter how I tried.

I’ve been told I have a way about me, that can make for an enjoyable tale, but I find some trouble in bypassing the inherent stuttering that comes with my working mind. Eventually I’ll spit out what I feel sounds best, after much deliberation . . . trouble is, by then I’ve lost my way. My dream has always been to become a writer, glorifying and exaggerating tales pulled from the pockets of my deteriorating gray matter. Writing, to me, is the purest form of art. Music, painting, etc., can become masterpieces in a matter of minutes given the right circumstances. Books, however, they take time regardless of their simplicity; even short stories can take time to grow.

If I can write a novel, I can rule the world. Or, at least, reign over the one I create.

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