A writer, unwritten

I can’t remember who I was before you came.
And you were nothing until I wrote you into existence.
Suddenly, here we both are,
Fleshed out for the very first time.

I finished writing the first draft of my first novel today. I’ll revisit the story many times, as I smooth the rough edges and polish it to shine, even in the absence of light. But here today, this thing was born of me and something else. Something that slumbered has been given its life. And neither of us will ever be the same.

4 thoughts on “A writer, unwritten

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