People act as if all the worth that I could ever hope to have as a writer relies on my ability to find my illustrator, to reveal my muse. To have someone to kiss my ink stained fingers and flick their ideas of how artsy my stale coffee looks on Our Ikea table. I smile to these people. Shake my head, release my wounded bottom lip. If I had a muse, illustrator, or even someone to kiss my ink stained fingers, this much would definitely be true; I might never have wrote at all.
Joined:Aug 02, 2011 10:31PM