He stares at me through obsidian black eyes. Eyes as black as his heart.
How I allowed this creature to live in my writing cabin is beyond me. My sanctuary. My place of creativity and fun, invaded by a malignant presence of his kind. Stealing my joy, causing me to hate my own stories.
His name is Doubt, and he seems to show up about this phase of every book.
He sets his wings and glides to my desk
I opened the Serang manuscript and started my word searches. My critique partners made sure I cleaned up all my stupid errors. Doubt paced back and forth across the desktop, knowing, waiting.
It wasn’t until I got to its/it’s and started finding mistakes, then he croaked out his evil laughter.
What made me think I could be an author?
“Hey! You are an author.” Lisa entered the room. She wore…
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