After a week of struggling for each word, the writing came smoothly last night. I'd love to share how it happened, but this creation thing is so mysterious. I think it had to do with kind words, self-forgiveness, and releasing my grip instead of tightening it.
In the interest of not stopping the flow, I offer just a quote today:
"...Work--how we make things of and do things to the external world--is nearly as basic, and primeval, a factor in human happiness as family relations. The inability to write reflects the sufferer's feeling that he or she cannot contribute to the world, cannot communicate with others in any meaningful way."
from The Midnight Disease
by Alice Flaherty