My success as a writer seemed silly to me. The whole practice of being an author was irrational. All people experience life, and all people can tell a story, why was I so good at it? After 19 years I still had no idea why keystrokes I made were appreciated so much. I wrote each word as a choice, just like any person would choose which foot to put on the first step of a staircase.

I wrote about things that tormented my brain. I was an intelligent person, I knew that. I had been tested in 5th grade and cursed with a genius IQ score.

How can we measure intelligence?

Can the average person ever grasp the intellect of a genius? How can the author connect to his audience? To me it was impossible. Commercial audiences made no sense to me. I brought my novels out of my soul, with no audience in mind. It was a birthing, a capturing of a feeling and then a release into words. I cared nothing for the reaction from readers.

“You will be taken to answer The Question now.” The voice came again.