Found on a forum: I think of my inner world like a child holding a box of their most precious treasures and when they show it to someone the person laughs and teases that that they aren’t treasures, they are worthless knickknacks and stones. What hurts isn’t being told that they are worthless, what hurts is that something so wonderful could not be shared. What doesn’t do any good is locking the box up and showing no one ever again.
And I mean writing that doesn’t exist, not writing about things that don’t exist. So I’m working on what feels like a novel, perhaps of slightly shorter than what would be considered a big book, but not so short as to not fall into the novel category. It also seems to want to be a young adult book, through it wasn’t one when it was still rattling around in the cobwebs of my lack-of-brain.