Every writer is climbing a ladder, and there are only two directions.
Some writers believe they are in competition with other writers, and that they must kick, claw, slap, and tickle their way to the top. They think they must displace people who are reaching for the same rung, and that those below them must be left far behind. For them, writing success is a blood sport, and up there in the clouds lays a heap of golden rewards. The rewards are sweeter to them knowing others have failed.
Others are just putting their virginal fingers on the first rung, testing its strength, wondering how they will measure up. They might look into those lofty stratospheres and gauge the distance. Some will let go before they put boot to wood, or else take a springing, desperate leap for a rung beyond their grasp. A few will stand at the bottom with chainsaws, hoping to topple the entire structure because they either have no faith in themselves or or their bitterness takes its turn.
However, writers aren’t climbing the same ladder and don’t have to fight each other to climb. Because there is no ladder waiting. Each writer has to build one and lean it against her own clouds.
The ladder is built of dreams.
The clouds are readers.
A nice, soft, welcoming destination.
Without readers, the ladders have nothing to hold themselves in the air, nor any reason to ascend.
Thanks for being heavenly.
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