Writing some books makes you feel pregnant. You can't deny that you are growing something mysterious inside you. It swells in your gut, it moves you to complain that life is growing hard and thorny. Your back aches. You want sympathy, someone to hold your hand and reassure you that things will work out. You need consolation. You feel pity for yourself and wonder how women can endure the pain and agony of giving birth. It makes you stagger at the miracle...
Related Subjects
Poetry