Some days, writing is like walking on a thin sheet of ice. I push and push, inch by inch a little further and listen for the weight of my inabilities and insecurities to cause the initial crack, that fine fissure that will lead (with any luck) to the cataclysmic break. Then Ill sink right to the bottom like a dead weight to the sticky, inky muck where the words live. Its from that place that I write.
Some days, writing is like a naughty romp in the sack. My confidence rises and Im sweaty, raw, animal. I try to pin the words down on the sheets, take advantage, touch them but they fight back, playfully pulling, lustfully pushing. Maybe Ill win, maybe I wont but the excitement grows and its somewhere in that heightened awareness that I take them I take the words and I write.
Some days, writing is just a pain in the ass.