It’s 3 o’clock in the morning, and her creative brain is racing, racing once again. The house is soundless and dark. During those lonely hours, that dreamy state, she finds herself talking to Maya Angelou, the master poet, the one who possesses language, wisdom and light. She asks for guidance, some inspiration, that jolt, that will appear and fill all those sad, blank pages that wait for her, inside her writing room, until finally, a warm sensation surrounds her. It feels like sunlight, kissing, caressing the skin, before she hears that faint whisper, “Rise Child.”
