I am an author;
People expect me to write
more and more
But, on somedays, I just sit idle
Gazing at the barren white screen.
The cursor blinking, urging me to type;
My fingers lying lamely on the keyboard-
I sit stunned, my eyes fixed at the glass window.
My vision sneaking through the dry barren branches
Into the vast empty blue sky.
Hours sweep by but nothing moves me.
I think deep; deep into the blank.
As if all my author skills got abducted by some evil magic leaving me a zombie.
But then, I breathe it out. Not all days will be productive, some will be trash, some will be outliners. At the end of the day what makes me an author is not the monotony of routine writing
But the imperfect flow of my passion.
Let it be so forever!
Literature is not a rat race.
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