There is often an assumption made about writers; this being an unfounded expectation that we are in constant unison with words. The weaving of letters, words, sentences and the like into something coherent is construed as a seamless process, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Writing is a carthartic process of sorts, born of emotions that are on the surface and deeply ingrained into the core of our person.
I find that the nuances of life consistently serve as the foil to either extinguish or to fuel my literary endeavors.
Living is not easy, nor is the art of writing, but we do what we must.
I’ve begrudgingly come to the realization that it isn’t the writer “having a way with words” but it is “words having a way with the writer” and it is incumbent on us to exhibit patience so that words can exploit us for that higher purpose.