I pulled out an old picture book manuscript day before yesterday. It’s quiet. It’s literary. It might be philosophically obtuse. I’m somewhere deep in a literary hole, staring up at flickers of light, trying desperately to grab hold of one of them for keeps. But there are parts of this manuscript that make me go, “YES! YES!”, and I think that deep somewhere in it, there is something to love.

But now that I’ve been staring at the same stanza for the last two hours, changing it back and forth and back again, I’m spent. Chocolate, anyone?

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