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  • Being a writer is hard.
    At least, from what I've heard and what I've experienced.
    Recently, on my end of writer-dom, the problem hasn't been writer's block, or not knowing where the plot is going, or not being able to find that perfect word...
    No, my issue has been motivation and desire.
    This book I've been working on, a YA Fantasy novel, has been living in my brain since about 5th grade. A one page fiction assignment that turned into a holy-crap-I-cannot-stop-writing-this-is-amazing-there-are-ideas-overflowing-in-my-brain 5 page assignment for me. That was its birth.
    It's been growing and maturing in my mind for a little over a decade now, and I only have about 17,000 words.
    I want to finish this novel. I do, honestly.
    But something has dropped out of me along the way. That burning fire that singed my belly from the inside out has been doused with arctic waters, and it scares the ever-living crap out of me.
    I can write here, no problem. The words come easily, honestly, earnestly.
    As far as my story, my baby, is concerned, I can only manage a few paragraphs in my little notebook every few months, now.
    Where is my passion?
    Where did it go?
    Did it leave me? Or did I leave it?
    Either way, it needs to be found.
    It is wandering the streets, angry and neglected, with dirty feet and feeble frame, waiting with a tear streaked face, its stomach grumbling.
    I just hope I get to it in time.
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