Writing was not the thing. It got me to the real thing—how I saw myself and my relationship to the world.
“I trusted him, as students must their teachers, and he betrayed my trust.”
“The essay will feel like it’s killing you and the ending will not be what you thought it might be.”
We stayed inside for days painting papier-mâché objects. Outside, Kashmir had come to a standstill.
“Is it ever too late to live some version of your dreams?”
What kind of story would you like to write?
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