Great stories are like majestic mountains.

Most are content to admire them from a distance,
commenting on their beauty, their obvious brilliance,
their inapproachability.

Many throw themselves onto their surface, seeking
to discover their true substance or their roots in a mere
moment; and stumble away bruised and unsatisfied with their experience.

Some make it past the base, and reach halfway to the
top—high enough to see the glorious view and to
return again safely with pleasant tales of erudite adventure.

A few scale the steep surface, clawing their way
through strength of will to the highest peaks; breathe
the rarified air of genius and, upon their their return,
receive accolades and interviews from lesser seekers of wisdom.

But it is from deep within the darkness, well away
from the grand ranges of literary creation, where
only the maddest will venture; that comes the slow
tectonic scratches of pen, the dry rustle of paper, and
the tiny, electronic tap, tap, tap of a new mountain being born.

—Erica Friedman