She put down the pen and flexed her fingers. One more story. Her husband looked over his newspaper and smiled a puzzled smile.
“Why do you do it?”
“What? This? Why do I write? I love writing.”
“Okay. I’ll accept that. But why must you write a story every day?”
“Because I challenged myself to do it.”
“There’s more to it than that though. This is like you are giving the world yourself. Little bit by little bit.”
“That’s sort of the point.”
He looked at her sadly. “And when you are done will there be nothing left for me?”