I used to have this vision of what it would be like when I became a full-time writer. I’d be sitting at my large mahogany desk, the sheer curtains would billow with the southerly breeze from across the lake, and words would flow from my brain through my fingers to the keyboard like electricity pulsing through a wire. A blissful Mona Lisa smile would tease my lips as metaphor and imagery transformed the blank page into a best selling novel. Today as I sit at my IKEA birch desk staring at a draft of my manuscript covered in red Read More
