Writing about writing, in my mind, is dangerous at best.
I’m always worried that my Muse will get upset that I mention her too much and she’ll fly away. So now, if it sounds like I’m hunting for words, well, I am, since there was a coherent thought originally attached to this idea.
The coherent thought escaped between bed and the coffee. It was good, all about writing and toil, trouble, the pain and angst, the hair-pulling, nail-biting, pacing back and forth, yeah.
Years ago, I swiped a signature file, and I’ve incorporated it as my own since, as a motto, the little comment holds great truth:
“A lot of work goes into making this look effortless.”
Laeti edimus qui nos subigant!
