Sometimes I think that there is no way I can actually write a book as good as the book I’m imagining in my head. It’s like everything starts to die when I commit it to the page.
But then sometimes I think that my book is so much more than I could dream of, like sitting down to write is what made it come alive.
I don’t know whether to grieve or celebrate, so I guess I do both.
The writing life.
Image credit: Roxana Trifa