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I was never a man prone to talk. I relentlessly avoided chit chat and would always rather stay quiet than initiate conversation in any shape or form. There was something about writing, though, that brought out the words from within me. I wrote every single day. Paragraphs, short stories, poems, you name it I set it down on paper. I considered most of my work relatively good yet I never could muster up the courage to show it to anyone. So I kept all of it –every single word- to myself. That’s the thing with writing, you keep it to yourself and it’s yours forever, you share it and its value diminishes. Then came that cool mid October morning when I finished an article on that now nondescript movie who everyone thought was the new Gone With The Wind. The piece was so passionate, so wildly witty that I couldn’t resist showing it to that forgettable magazine editor who I then thought of as my savior. He loved it and instantly published it. I thought of that day as the best of my life, but looking back I realize it was only the beginning of a never ending nightmare.

Deadline in a week and not a chapter written. D***. This could make for a divine tragedy. It's all that piece's fault, i thought. If it weren't for that godforsaken article I would never be in this situation. I quickly dismissed that thought, knowing that regret only ever leads to failure. I had made my bed and was now forcing myself to lie on it. I never wanted to be a writer. I was perfectly comfortable in my job as an assistant to a law executive, but no, I had to go in and mess it all up by submitting that article. After I got published work offers rained down on me, and I gladly accepted them. Little did I know, that words after a while entrap you, and certainly mean more than what is set down on paper. A desk is all I need. When I find the desk, the writing will come, I repeatedly assured myself unconvincingly. Isn’t it terribly sad when not even you can comfort yourself? I looked for the perfect desk, the one that would regurgitate all the words from within me, but I never could find it. That is, until I went to that flee market down in Cobbler’s Street. The one filled with all the raggedy clothes and faded feather encrusted accessories. That’s where I saw it. To someone else’s eyes it probably looked like a piece of junk, but to me that desk was glorious. I convinced myself it could’ve been fit for royalty and oh did this mind set work. I got home, had it set up in my obscure study, and quickly got to work with a bottle of my finest cognac in hand for good measure.





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