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  • Last February, I decided I was going to write a book.

    It should be straightforward enough, I thought. After all, I wrote for a living every day--back then--as a print journalist. My craft was honed. The plot and characters were in my head. I had the time and it was time.

    I might have also said something trite and hopeful like: Discipline of a ninja, folks.

    Fast forward almost a year and all I have is a solid plot summary and characterizations, 20 pages and a lot of self-doubt. There's been a career transition from the daily written word to the digital world and a struggle as of late to get back to That Place.

    And then there's the fear of the immigrant artist at work: Will this be good enough to make my parents proud, to be accepted as true literature in Trinidad? Will this be good enough to warrant another, to make this the living I want it to be?

    Will anyone want to read it?

    It took a brush with death just before the holidays last year to shake me out of it, remind me that if I was to die tomorrow, this book and this story would remain untold, and that I would never be an author then. It would be a travesty to my creative soul.

    I wish I could tell you where I am with it or that my trepidation miraculously went away, but I know better than to spread that kind of word. This here is a personal journey I can no longer be afraid to take. I must live inside my fears and beyond them to be what I was meant to.
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