Being a budding writer wasn't easy, and William knew it. It felt as if his life had been directed into becoming one, as his mother had named him after the Bard of Avon. He would try to convince himself he was good enough, and as soon as he was convinced he would stumble on one of the works of his namesake. His writing career was a roller-coaster, as his mood was. One day he was convinced he had written something worth publishing, the following he would be down in the pit of misery, wanting to burn the novel he had just finished. He wrote pages and more pages, and then he revised them, feeling at the same time it was good, it needed rewriting, and shame for having written those lines. He wondered, did Shakespeare ever feel like that? It didn't matter people told him his work was good, because he always wondered if they said so out of politeness.
He had been editing for hours, resisting to go to sleep because he was on a good streak, when he finally fell asleep on his manuscript. While sweating on the pages he had one of his weirdest dreams ever. He dreamt he saw a young William Shakespeare struggling with one of his first manuscripts, having the same doubts and insecurities he was having. He woke up feeling reassured, maybe he would never be Shakespeare, and he never expected to, but he still had a full writing career ahead of him.
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