This morning, I printed the second draft of my book. When I transferred the stack of paper from the tray of my printer to my desk, the weight of it surprised me. For a brief moment, it became a tangible recognition of the efforts I have put into the project.
Writing, as with any creative endeavour, can be a lonely process. Until other human beings can hold our book in their hands, we writers must eke out a little bit of satisfaction from wherever or whatever we can, even from an inanimate wad of paper.
