When I wrote my first book,
It poured out of me,
A creative process unlike
Any I’ve experienced before,
A fire hose of words
Waiting to be released.
I had no idea if it was good . . .
It just needed to get through a draft.
When I reread it out loud, slowly,
Making some small adjustments,
I got to the end
And cried
Because I had forgotten
How beautiful it was.
And since I cry at good books,
I figured this is a good book.
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