The last day of the month feels like a strange precipice, like an edge you've been looking at in the approach but which now you hesitate to leap from. What is behind door number one? You know only the mayhem through which you wade, the sense of control is the payoff you're reluctant to give up.
I send a 300-page manuscript to the editor, and the fear doesn't grip me until it's too late to take it back. What if they pull back the curtain and see me with my wizard strings, see me with no clothes, see that it's all smoke and mirrors, what was I thinking?
At the edge of the cursor is another manuscript entirely, a young girl stands waiting, patient. She has many obstacles yet to face, many journeys yet to wander, but she waits there, knowing that soon you will return to her and only her. Soon you will find your place again, and it will make all the wait worth it.
You take a deep breath, count down the wild list of things remaining to do. At the end of the tunnel waits a young girl on a blinking cursor, and soon you may reach her, soon you can take her and and walk her to the ends of the earth.
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