I do not write beautifully. My sentences splinter where words should flow, and my paragraphs droop while I am busy thinking not only of what to say, but how best to say it, or indeed how best to say it without saying anything at all.
There is no stable foundation for my characters to live on, and I weep as they fall short within their kind, for I cannot give them the life that they see others get.
My best work is composed inside my head, often when the moon is at its fullest, but it is forgotten when the sunlight floods my room with the reality of a new day.
It is not fair, but it is true. I will not write beautifully - my words will tumble and fall far from their meaning. My worlds will crumble as soon as they are formed and my characters will never stray from the pages in which they were born.
But I will write until my hands beg me not to. I will write in the face of mockery and failure, and perhaps worst of all, in the face of indifference.
I will write, for when I write, I breathe.