Hello

Something inside me hurts.
It's tensed up, like hands wringing a dishcloth. It's to do with my writing.
... fear of losing myself in a day job
... this is my only career ambition
... this is a part of my happiness
... this is a part of me
... this is life-giving.
I fight but cannot fight.
This is me, here. My novel was me, too. This strange, heartfelt thing.

This is how I can most contribute to the world and to myself.

This is me. Here. Hello.