What Dreams are Made of

Reading between the lines.

All I’ve ever wanted in my life was to be a writer.

I can distinctly remember the callous that grew on my right middle finger from holding a pencil and habitually rubbing the gritty, sharpened part of it against the swollen bump that grew, that the skin would turn a charcoal black.

That small bump is still there, the habit continuing to live in my skin.

Wr…