It’s a place where we disappear, locked in thought of the imagination. The pen moves mightily, an effortful attempt to get locked in with each written word.
Each sentence is a constant beginning, a chance to practice a stroke of brilliance.
We just might get it, someday. Get what, you ask? Perhaps nothing but the chance to do it all over again tomorrow.
What’s the rush to the pedestal?
“The chief thing is to humble one’s self and become a little child, to be content not to master all at once, to be obedient to what Nature can teach, and to be patient through years and years.”
Auguste Rodin