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            Sometimes I write with others, in a quiet room, on desks or tables. No sound except the tick-tock of the clock, the scratch of pens and the creak of wood. The pen flies and every word is pure tripe, but that’s the rule. Let it out, don’t beat yourself with standards and self demands. It’s free and unencumbered.

            Other times I write alone, and every sound is unwelcome, every visitor an interloper. In those instances every rule is sacred, but eventually sanctity wears thin, and wears off. Every method must be tried, whether to court inspiration like a lover, or beat at her door like a barbarian. Time must be wasted, and every piece lost is a sin, not to be taken lightly, but it is only by trying everything, each time bought with sweat and blood, that even the one may ring true.

            How I grow to hate it? But the fruits of my labor are so sweet, though bought with a bitter price.