Here's one to chill the writers among you:
|Courtesy of www.femalefirst.co.uk|
Dexter had given it all up to be a writer: the salary, the power, the perks and the pension. His head was clear of that corporate nonsense, his energy released from servitude. No more did he have to cram his creative output into fevered bursts at the crack of dawn or late into the night. He would write all day.
But nothing came. Instead of the wonderworld of a living imagination, where angels danced, sparks flew and treasures were crafted, he appeared to be working with a block of wood.
He had no talent. He had no job. Dexter panicked.