The following is a passage from the novel The Map of Time by Felix J. Palma (pictured):
Not even the touch on the skin of the delicious breeze heralding the
arrival of summer, nor caressing a woman's body, nor sipping Scotch whiskey in
the bathtub until the water goes cold, in short, no other pleasure Wells could
think of gave him a greater sense of well-being than when he added the final
full stop to a novel. This
culminating act always filled him with a sense of giddy satisfaction born of
the certainty that nothing he could achieve in life could fulfill him more than
writing a novel, no matter how tedious, difficult, and thankless he found the
task, for Wells was one of those writers who detest writing but love
"having written."
There is so much truth to these sentences that
it's as if I've found a sibling in this grouping of words, a truth that is so
unlike a truth but rather a matter of fact, never having to prove itself as
being otherwise. Like I felt about
Woody Allen in his movie "Midnight in Paris," writers just get other
writers and cater to them as such.
Last night, I read my last completed chapter so far, and it left me
stunned and so satisfied that I slept better than I'd slept in a long time.
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