Someone asked, "What is it like to write a book?"
It’s like entering a dark cavern through an opening barely large enough for my body. Once inside wet drips echo from far in the back, so I know it is deep. My footsteps reverberate off the walls, telling me it is wide. A cool smelling breeze hisses above of my head, this is a very tall space. I light a match and catch a glimpse of detailed cave paintings, colorful beasts and men, stars and trees, river...things.
A throaty rumble from far within and my match burns out. Something lives in here. I can no longer see the entrance. I must go through, deeper in, farther down. Escape is only possible through forward motion.
I hear whispered voices.
…it is not the voices of my Leprechaun friends….
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