As I sit staring at the open notebook lying in front of me, pen flicking about in a restless hand, I force myself to remember that I am not the only person in this predicament. Somewhere out there, I was sure plenty of others just like me battle with the burning desire to write something provocative, yet sorely lacking the inspiration to pen anything at all.

I start, stop, and start again a dozen times over, second- and third-guessing myself as I scratch out lines, rewrite them, and scratch them out again.

How many people like me have started writing, determined to write something unique and deemed a masterpiece of literature? I care because I want to impress those peers that might one day read what I write. I want them to say, “Wow, this writer is good!”

I put my pen down for seventy-second time that evening. Aggressively, I rip out a random, word-riddled page in my notebook, thrust it into an envelope, and send it to the one person whose opinion actually mattered.

Two days later I get mail.

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