I don’t really write anymore. Not like I used to, anyway. I used to spin novels out of nothing without breaking a sweat, used to throw short stories together as easy as breathing, because once upon a time, I was a writer. Nothing made me happier than building a world brick by brick, populating it with people, and flooding my mind with their scenes, their conversations, the countless directions their stories could take. It was invisible to me, but completely essential, as if half of my heart was always in a world of my own creation.