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 r...
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