© Duru Gungor
I'm one of those writers who, once a piece is completed, becomes fully alienated to it. On happy occasions, it happens because the finished thing seals itself against time and operates serenely within its limits like a perpetual machine, while even the next day I myself am no longer the one who wrote it. (In the more frequent unhappy instances, I still have no choice but to walk away from the malodorous thing that came out of me.) Perhaps it's this separation that helps me turn back and recognize around the finished piece odd glimmers and flashes, at times an entire halo, of additional life--strange coincidences, sources of inspiration, stories within stories.
Duru Gungor finds it awkward to be referring to herself in the third person. That's where I come in.
Welcome to my official playground, a place where a hyper-tense, paradoxically slothful, and occasionally crafty nocturnal beast reveals her true colors.
Disguised as a professor by day, I crawl out at nightfall and slowly, painfully, ecstatically toil at the small, quaint work that I put on display here. Why? I might respond to that with a dance, and that's something you should know about me. Also, see how fearless I am in using adverbs. This is a good start.
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