It's dark down here- a mile and a half under the earth. Dark and quiet, but for the two sounds- hammer beating on the chisel, and close at its heels, the chisel gnawing at the rock. The yellow light swathes across 8 feet in front of me and no more, scaring the dust motes into flight. I keep at it- kerrang-krich, kerrang-krich, kerrang-krich- hoping to strike a vein of gold, and perhaps- the motherlode.
That's what writing feels like some days.
That's what writing feels like some days.
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