What I enjoy about writing is a combination of elements. It is the thrill of the chase to capture the perfect words in the perfect sequence, that will describe, move, or provoke. The physical seclusion that allows me rest from my active social self, to turn inward. And the release, the immense satisfaction I feel when a piece has been birthed from a quiet, wisp of an idea into a concrete and living body of language.
What I don’t enjoy about writing, and seems to come with the territory for everyone who produces consistent work, is the inevitable wall that erupts from nowhere. And I’m talking about a several story high, made of cinderblock, immovable bugger that mocks you day and night with its very existence. This very real obstacle relentlessly challenges you to break through; giving promise that there is brilliance, remarkable quality, and cool, abundant springs on the other side.
And so, for several days I have stared at the wall, waiting... Waiting for a turn once again at those cool, abundant springs.