It started with some incoherent thoughts. Then eventually, a few simple paragraphs followed that turned into several chapters. I hungered, got drunk and wrote more each day. Writing freed me from the madness, from the real world, from myself.
I was completely and utterly happy. Result: Endless pages of prose that I never imagine would see the light of day.
After three years of erratic writing, with life getting in the way, I finally scribbled the sweetest words a wannabe novelist could ever write — The End.
Or so I thought. The stress and the urge to scream every once in a while didn’t stop there.
The books in the shelves of Powerbooks and National made realize that I was only halfway through the finish line. To fulfill my dream of being a published author meant that I needed to sweat more. Bleed more. Cry more.
Another year more of countless coffee cups drained and broken, here I am embarking on a scary (and yet exciting) journey of my life.
Take a sip. Come with me.