“It’s so hot, I think I’m melting. I haven’t been able to write for three days.” Sally held a blended mocha, sweat glistening on her forehead as she plunked down on the Adirondack chair next to me. “Really? What, has your brain turned to mush? Are you fingers slipping off the keyboard?” She stared at me, frowning. “Ouch.” “If you want to be a writer, Sally, you have to press on. Do you want to be a writer? Or just a wannabe?” “I think I’m going to take my mocha elsewhere.” “There’s no crying in writing, bay-bee. I once wrote a book while living in a garage without plumbing, heat or electricity. Believe me, I had reasons not to write. You have to press on, like a mailman, through sleet […]
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