Imagine if writers could be like artists and put on shows but instead of hanging canvases on the walls we hang novels and poetry and songs and chapters and plays and character sketches. We would fill so many rooms with our words. Words on top of words. Words spilling out of doorways and piling up in the halls. Words stacked in the corners and swept into the bins and collecting on the steps. Words floating out of the windows into the sky and rising up above the world to meet the stars.