It took me 10 years of writing and 10 more years of being published before I felt entitled to call myself a writer. These things take time.
— Joanne Harris (@Joannechocolat) July 28, 2015
What relief it brings to know I–
Just kidding. I am still terrified.
Welcome to the first paroxysm in what (I hope) will become a regular word-slinging idea machine. While I am hesitant to step to the platform, to chime in and take part in conversation(s) already so rich, that reluctance is the crux of this little noisette.
That merciless doubt.
It begins with a question that has no definitive answer. It is obscure, of varying germination times; it is single-cell algae multiplying with each crashing wave; it is the seventeen-year cicada. It takes on new forms at every turn, a shape-shifter waiting on each new plateau we reach.