That’s why it was hard to know for sure. Because she kept dropping her pencil and then bending over to pick it up, and I wondered whether she had butterfingers or if she was trying to entice me. She didn’t seem like the sort. A really honest smile when she’d look at me. No duplicitousness there. Not like me thinking that maybe she was, darkly
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But I just feel this burning desire to write something infinitely more serious.
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How serious is "infinitely more serious"?
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I feel like I have to desire to prove to myself that I can write a book.
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Seriously, now. I'm near at hand, gathering my power. When I'm ready I'll crack the shell of the Earth and emerge a spacedragon with butterfly wings.
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