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Bless the Mephit
October 05, 2004, 8:37 p.m. “I used to write like flying. The worlds, the words, would pour out of me. They weren’t always brilliant (often they were downright crap) but it used to be easy and effortless and exhilarating and magical. And then the gears in my head just seized. I rusted up like the tin man, with my axe half-raised and an empty place where my heart used to beat.” “I find writing and lovers don’t mix. Maintaining either devours hours … how do you do both? And what do you when the inevitable choice occurs. Generally it ends with broken hearts all round and my manuscript in the Tyne.”
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