The other day, I was sitting at my preferred writing nook of choice, a little coffee shop with big windows and a theater across the street (a joke about clichés I can’t think of should be here). I was leaning back against my chair, staring out the window into the lights and herds of people making it to a 5:30 p.m. show.
They must have left work early for that.
I cycled through a dozen and one things I wanted to be when I “grew up.” “Writer” was in there once or twice, but not definitively. I didn’t pursue it immediately because I didn’t think I had enough raw talent to be a great writer, and that’s what we allude to when we encourage “big dreams.” Mediocrity, averageness, and normalcy have become interchangeable terms. None of them — even with their stability, median stats, or middle-of-the-road contentment — are anything to which…
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