Writing is anything but passive, an act of birthing each and every time, images flowing unbidden, filling the page like a river of ink and blood flowing from your fingertips fierce stark and earnest in that writer’s chair, flailing like a hooked marlin as these energies pull you back and forth, raw and primordial, this act of writing - brooking no prisoners - come willingly to the gates, accept your destiny, make it real, the act of making quite seriously not a decision, writing chooses you. Kneel or stand, sit or lie down. It is no matter. You are led and to a certain small degree you are leading.

That’s how it works. You pull from everything you’ve got you pull and pull and sometimes magic happens other times you’re just a working stiff.