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Before the First Draft

The problem, she said, with being a writer is, it’s never done. The line never ceases movement even when the end arrives – The ripples created on the mind span an ocean so vast, so incomplete, There’s no shore to find, no place to rest. …

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That Fall Day

Sometimes, it just happens this way. Fall slams on the trees, the air chills, and I remember. I remember running, my feet pounding into the soft pavement, the smell of my new leather jacket, and catching up with her and running faster, faces streamed in …