It's undeniably a struggle.
Ink to paper, fingers to keyboard, voice to microphone; it's all the same. The seed of story is birthed deep within the brain, only to claw its way around, growing in volume and complexity until someone lets it out. But the process, the path toward light, does not flow like water from a jar.
Instead, it writhes and flows and sticks and squirms and gushes and stops and begins again. Fits and starts, gasps and sputters, thousands of words or only twelve.
Yet we live for the day of its completion.
We question the meaning of "complete," though. When is it finished? How much honing can the raw jewel accept? Is it ever truly the Masterpiece we believed it to be at its conception?
And so we continue, hapless parents believing our child is destined for greatness despite his flaws. Hungry for words of affirmation, we reveal the sacred place to eyes that will nitpick, pens that will strike out entire paragraphs, opinions that will chaff, sting, crush.
Then we continue on, for better or for worse or for the ultimate annihilation of our dream.
This is what stirs us, what inspires us, what feeds the creative frenzy that is our life force, our ultimate place of Being Who We Are. Beyond caffeine, beyond the majesty of nature, beyond the euphoria of romance -- this is where we are beckoned, where the delight of our days begins and ends.
Scorn us, smile at us, leave us to our own devices as you will. We will wend our way with or without you. It is our calling. Our destiny.