This Too Shall Pass...I look at writing as like a bowel movement. You sit, and sometimes you’re constipated and nothing comes. Sometimes you might have to strain and grunt before something comes forth. Sometimes no effort is needed whatsoever, and what you produce just spews forth.  Sometimes what is produced is good, solid and pliable, whereas sometimes it’s liquid, uncontrollable and splatters all over the place.  Sometimes it’s satisfying, sometimes it’s not.  Sometimes the urge hits you at the oddest of times. At times its after-effects linger and drift, offending everyone who comes into contact with it. One long unbroken string, or several bits seemingly unrelated to each other.  Sometimes what you’re consumed previously is visible.  One thing is for certain: Although I may feel spent, and whatever I produce usually stinks, at least I feel better having expelled the whole mess.  And you know I’ll be back sometime to do it again.  Like pooping, I shall be writing until the day I die.

::END TRANSMISSION::

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