I like writing. It makes me feel useful, like that little child I once was, but now I do have a fluent and original handwriting. A handwriting I’m proud of calling my own.
Some people don’t understand my handwriting (well, just some words). Others love it. Many people don’t care. “It’s a handwriting, gosh, it’s not a book!” they may say. No, sir, it’s a handwriting that can turn into books.
I like that possibility. Some letters make words, some words make sentences… and then BUM! You have a story. It’s like when you encourage a friend to talk to the person she likes and you feel frustrated because both of them are really shy… and then, all of a sudden, they’re making out in the corner, or in the bus, or even in front of you.
I like the idea of literature being that silly couple making out in…
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