I've lost track of how many times, feeling miserable about my lack of writerly progress, I’ve gone cold turkey, swearing off that word stuff forever and vowing to put all my energy into becoming a filthy rich and/or useful member of society, but within 3 weeks, I crawl back to the keyboard and reach up with trembling hands to tap out a letter to some newspaper editor ... and then off I go again, agonising over adjectives and contemplating commas.
On the way home in the train tonight, I saw a young man deep in a book. He was in another world. After much discreet contorting of my body, I saw that the book was Raymond E Feist's 'Magician', so that other world was Midkemia, a place I frequented myself many many years ago. It was nice to see the power of a book in action. And THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is what it is all about.
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