You may recall that I graduated with a Masters degree in English language and literature a couple of years ago. I spent a few months luxuriating in the freedom that comes with the knowledge that the last paper has been turned in and no one will be placing an eight-page syllabus in your hand anytime soon. I celebrated by reading whatever I wanted. Strangely, I sometimes wanted books on theory or even the occasional classic. Mostly, though, I read the type of books I had read before I started my program. I read science fiction and fantasy, romances, suspense, and horror. I also tried to find my writing voice, the one that wasn't concerned with sounding smart but with good storytelling. It was a struggle. Years of academic writing seemed to have obliterated my creativity. Everything I wrote seemed stilted and dry. Boring. Pointless. I began to fear I had traded my creative voice for an education, and that the trade-off m...