I’m currently stuffed into a sunken arm chair facing shelves and shelves of books. They’re faded and worn, some crumpled and torn at the edges. If I’m lucky, a soft, cool breeze floats in through the window to my left. It carries with it conversation and a tinkle of silverware from the tables below. If I listen hard enough, I can hear the Sawmill River rushing over its rocky bed. For quite some time now, I’ve wanted to visit the Book Mill. It’s quaint allure has called me closer and as I sit here, finally here, I can feel the magic and the charm I hoped it would have. In...
How to Make Progress When You Want to Give Up
