She splashes the page with vibrant colors, blues of melancholia, greens of envy, reds of passion. She forms each paragraph with the utmost precision, a balancing act of carefully placed adjectives, nouns, and verbs. Each word, each letter, each line, each squiggle, each dot, is meticulously laid to create the perfect image. She fleshes out her characters with chiaroscuro. Light and dark, good bad, right and wrong. She is an artist, not with the swish, swish swish of a paintbrush or the chink, chink, chink of a chisel. But the click-clack of a keyboard, the scritch-scratch of a pencil. She leads you to see things from her perspective as readily as a painter does. She takes you from introduction to denouement, the rise and fall of movement as steady as strokes on the canvas. She watches her story take shape and form, and like Aphrodite to Pygmalion’s Galatea, breathes life into it. 

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