Writers are most honest on paper. No matter which mask we show the world, our hearts leak out onto the page. We can say anything – some is edited away, some is lost in translation. But if you want to see a writer’s heart, read the pure unadulterated manuscript. Rarely will you find a writer’s heart in the publication. Skill, definitely. Opinions, perhaps. The heart is in the ink of the first notes of the idea.

I spied you first entombed inside an epic of lust and rage. You crunched your brow into a frown – eyes strained into the page.  Your hair was mussed behind your head, and you didn’t seem to care; Your arm was curled beneath your chin, your leg tucked in your chair. I saw you next as you bounded up, a romance clasped in hand;  You blushed and grabbed another that I don’t think you had planned. Your capricious smile reflected your whimsical mood that day; Your twinkling eyes just seemed to shake all the mundane away. I watched you coil into a horror on the other side of the room;…