I’m midway through what feels like the millionth edit of my book, and this is particularly relevant at the moment. It’s still strange to me that a world can exist so vividly and entirely within my head, and now on the paper I’m reading, and that the people from this world feel like real and whole people to me.
Writing is weird. I find the whole process so surreal, I think I could probably write a whole book about it. Or at least a few more poems.