Writing is like wrestling, a tug of war with words that only make sense when we put them down.
We anticipate the next letter, next word, the next sentence, with the prayer that it all comes together: grammar, structure, and meaning.
Perfection is futile. The only fight we win is taking on the resistance that begs us to quit and move on.
But a writer is who we are, what we do, compelled to inject letters, words, and sentences into a jigsaw puzzle with pen and paper and screens galore.
And then we beg for cohesion, only to be lucky if anyone else gets it.