One has to write. I understand this now. This whole time, my whole life, I’ve felt like I have to study, to learn, to master. But there is no such thing.

I’ve been reading and editing some short stories by a friend at work. He is good, really good. Yet I’m only the fourth person ever to read it.

We have no way of knowing if we will ever be heard, let alone remembered. How can we not write? What do we have to fear?

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