My skills with the pen had improved minimally, but I was learning to take all wins for what they were. I pulled the metal nib downward and began to write. I wanted a life With an epic love story Instead I died alone I hung my head, then closed the book and stared through the window at my pitiful garden. I would grow old, alone, fighting forest creatures for wilted plants and eating so-so baked goods. And I’d be happy about it, darn it.
