Christened

I am beholden to no one save myself, and that makes it all the harder. To write only for myself, and not for another soul, is to wander in a desert in search of water. If only someone would tell me that, indeed, there is an oasis, that I shall surely drink milk and honey come the end of the manuscript. Instead, I type words wondering what will become of any of them. Aborted, forsaken children. Pitiable, each and every one!