“LIFE IN A NUTSHELL” by Anji Johnston

Unwritten. Unborn. Existing only in a kernel of thought, a kernel of soul,
a kernel of desire. In the potential power of a pen’s liquid or a computer’s
exposed keyboard. An unwritten book is like an unborn child—in some
ways. You’ve already decided on the name, and you’ve figured where you’ll
be tucking it in at night, and perhaps you’ve already considered to which
schools and libraries you’ll be taking it once it’s old enough to contain
legible words and enough interest. You have the highest hopes for it, the
most golden dreams and ambitions, you want to give it a solid foundation
and then let it evolve as it should on its own. When its head erupts from the
womb, though, you may have found that you’ve created something quite
unexpected. Usually, your little bundle of joy keeps you up at ungodly

hours, makes it own rules and won’t adhere to any of yours, and gives you
a headache when it won’t get its way. But it gives you such happiness, such
pride as it grows older, and you are honored that this dear little something
is a part of you, that its existence is part of your doing. Like a baby it is
helpless, vulnerable to fires and drowning and theft. You must keep an eye
on it always, encouraging it to grow, change the bad habits and patterns you
see, wipe away the crap, follow it where it wants to go as it explores its own
little world with baby steps. It mirrors your emotions, and if you love it well
you will be rewarded tenfold.

“Angreek87″