I sit down at the desk.
An empty page awaits me.
Like an artist, I am afraid to tough the page, but, like an artist, I morph the words into a beautiful masterpiece.
The first sentence determines my readers' respose.
I am my worst critic, I remind myself.
No matter what I think, it doesn't matter, it's about the readers.
The people who will reccomend, or not.
The ones who my career depends on.
My destiny depends on them.
They don't know, but they are in my prayers.
I look at the sentence again.
It buds, and like a flower seed, bursts into something unexpected and remarkable.
Like a tree, the roots grow and grow until they can grow no more.
The printer buzzes with my anxious breaths.
The paper comes out and I pray it is good to me.
My own worst critic.