Writing is like eating to me.  It’s something I have to do, love to do, crave yet sometimes writhe against. 

I think I will write.  I clear my desk, turn off my cell, lock the door and sit at my computer.  After ten minutes, nothing.  An hour, still nothing.  But totally unprepared, in church, in a movie, trying to sleep, trying to pay attention to a luncheon friend, then a word, a phrase, a way out of a corner I wrote myself into back at my computer comes spewing like oil in the gulf.  I reach for a receipt, the back of an envelope, the palm of my hand, anything to capture that perfect thought which I will not remember when I am sitting later in front of my computer.  I am its slave.  It is my master.  When I cooperate with it, let it take me over, do not question its efficacy, it rewards me with works like my just released Savant publication, POOR RICH. Words so perfect, so right on, so defining, so delicious that I read them over and over again. Did I really write that?

I admit it.  “No one enjoys my writing more than I do.”  Sinful pride?  Absolutely. The bane and the joy of the writer, presented before you, the reader, for your delicious enjoyment. 

Jean Blasiar
Author of POOR RICH (Savant 2010)