by Madam Z
I want to write, or at least, I want to want to write, or maybe I just want to have written. Yeah, that would be great - I have written a best-selling novel; I am rich and famous; people stop me on the street, begging me to autograph their newly purchased copy of my book, and the extra ones they bought for their mothers and friends. Of course, I could get through life quite nicely without ever penning another word; just continue to live my fame-free existence, undistinguished until I’m extinguished. But I won’t give myself permission to stop trying to try; I will keep on poking at the sealed box of potential stories until I wrench one out. Maybe it will be like a freeze-dried dinner, a box of old K-rations from some soldier’s backpack, stored in the attic; I’ll open it up, add some tears, and it will spring to life, before my eyes. I will, I will, I want to, I need to; I can do it... or not.
Madam Z, whose full catalog is here, loves six and isn't afraid to admit it. Do yourself a favor and check out her blog.