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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