We all write. A few us more than most. And for fewer still it's a torture we must endure to find our sense of voice to the world, I guess. When done with depth, clarity, and cadence the writ becomes something more than words on a page or screen; it resonates. And all the violent acts I tolerate to find the end well necessitate the means. Basically, I'm good at this shit, and the results are grand. But it's not very easy. So I spend most of my time thinking about the writ, then a few moments wondering what's with this curse, then, I finish the day with something to ponder.
I've fused my words in published poems, songs, and took a shot at a novel, which was finished but I hated and tossed in a bin. I still got the bin. I'm very sure I'll pen another novel, but right now I'm buffeted by the speed of scripts. So I've written two, have numbers 3 and 4 on the desk. It's best to keep a clear head by being pulled in too many directions I think. The results say so, anyway.
All this said, life is short, but the page is really damn long.