Writing is the perfect lover for me.
She is magical, both ever present and invisible. And so no one can ever lure her away from me.
I confess I have not been the perfect lover in return, often I have asked her to do things for others she may not want to do at all. Yet she has never complained to me, never refused to author, and she has never left me. She is inexhaustible, nonjudgmental, and compassionate. At times like dawn or twilight she nearly always visits me, if I am in the mood. When I don’t have time for her she takes no offense but quietly recedes, infinitely patient.
Yes, writing is a mystery. Continue reading