The last safe refuge.

The timid can use their imagination to give strength to a royal hand they are too afraid to play.

Scribblers of tall tales can stride like a colossus over the environment of their own creation.

It is liberating.

Fears can be exorcised, terrors purged – others can fall while the writer can remain strong.

Creativity is the release for the captivated soul – the mundane can become fantastic – even for a few hours…

Beautiful women, handsome men – all can be approached, the legacies of reality temporally suspended.

Ideas that you would never discuss in ‘polite society’ are given free reign.

Angels may indeed stand aside afraid of placing their next footstep, but the writer has no such inhibition – the writer in the midst of collective terror is calm.

Errors can be corrected, mistakes deleted leaving only the chosen purity remaining.

The typed word, the collection of pages upon pages of narrative, a world of their creation – it is an achievement that has them standing next to Sheila taking that long deserved bow…

But the escape only lasts so long.

The auditorium that was impassive while the worlds were created now takes an audible intake of breath…

The footlights become bright, the crowd becomes visible – are they about to clap, or is this silence not a pause before accolades rain down, is this moment about to become extended indifference, or an exiting audience confirming their rejection of your works?

Such a scenario can be avoided.

If you never offer up – you can never be rejected.

Logic can be cruel in its simplicity.

But if rejection can be avoided, then so too the opportunity for applause…

So, we stand in the auditorium, the lights begin to rise…

Are they shuffling to give an ovation, or standing to exit…?

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