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I sense a struggle here, and I feel that pull of wanting to understand and maybe help, but not wanting to intrude, especially without really understanding. I don’t know if the world is conspiring to help any of those who have good fortune. If it is, is it about certain criteria, or an eeny, meeny, miney, moe sort of happenstance?

All I know for myself, is that I come closer to thriving as a writer, at least in mind and soul, when I receive the generosity of honest, but kindly given, feedback on how my work is experienced. It helps me get better at this thing I love, so I’ve worked hard at listening. I try to give feedback too, but have learned in the past that the thing I crave is often not what another creative writer wants. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

It’s strange to feel drawn to write or pursue anything artistic, things that can be such a minefield. They often leaves scars like a bad love affair. But then, maybe life itself and all the things we do are like that: hard to navigate, and none of us gets a map.

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