And another unfinished draft...Circa 2015
Staying quiet and the nagging voice of motivation that says, "What the hell are you living inside your head for, get out, get up, write something" are in fisticuffs this morning.
What moves most of us to change?
Is it the gentle chiding from a respected friend? The gnawing inner voice of shame? The comparing heart of the published words of another? Or is it just the knowledge that you were made for this and you aren't fulfilling that very purpose?
I don't believe the latter.
Runners run. Writers write.
So what am I?
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