This camp is a forge for the army; it’s testing our mettle. Instead of heat and hammer, our trials are cold and hunger. Question is, what are we made of?

I’m angry that I starved my brain and that I sat shivering in my bed at night instead of dancing or reading poetry or eating icecream or kissing a boy or maybe a girl…

You were born with the seeds of your talent, the ability to observe the world around you and weave piece of it into a story. I believe that most-if not all-people are born with these seeds. What separates the writers from the non-writers is that the writers actually sit down and, you know… write.

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