{I wrote this the other day because I felt like the words were taking over and it was hard to get the rest of my obligations accomplished. I imagine many writers have written words more poetic but essentially say the same thing.}

Being a writer is a troublesome thing. A strange well that must always be pumped.

Sometimes it comes as a deluge with waterfall fury. It cannot be scheduled or timed. You must stop everything to channel it. Stop cooking, driving, sleeping. Stop and let the words flow. Your hands tire keeping up.

The rest of the time, you stand in the heat, in the cold, churning letters into words, pumping out meaningless sounds. You feel nothing.

But if you stand there long enough, something happens. The flow returns. It always does.

We are just here to receive it. We really can’t take credit for the words that matter. They have a mind of their own. And we are their happy hosts.

[photo cred: rachelandcompany.blogspot.com]