i loved him.    it wasn’t the sort of love they wrote novels about, the kind that glows, but the quiet kind.    the kind too soft for love songs,   reserved   for endless love poems, hidden behind shy smiles and forbidden glances.   symphonies,   the kind that played long after curtains were drawn, …

You have to find your own shtick. A Picasso always looks like Picasso painted it. Hemingway always sounds like Hemingway. A Beethoven symphony always sounds like a Beethoven symphony. Part of being a master is learning how to sing in nobody else’s voice but your own. Hugh MacLeod