It rakes in my heart.

I just finished reading “Boy: Tales of Childhood” by Roald Dahl. It’s a fantastic book that tells the story of a childhood that could never exist in todays world, but which was for centuries, the standard life of a small boy.

One thing that you take away from the book is that Dahl has had an incredibly interesting life. He went to boarding school, worked for Shell in east Africa, flew fighter planes in WWII, all before settling down to write some of the best children’s books in the world.

I think that this interesting life was what enabled his terrific imagination. This troubles me. I have not had a fantastically interesting life. I grew up in boring ol’ Nampa. I’m not an interesting person. I’m boring. How can become a good writer with a life like this?


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