On writing...

I wrote this a while back, almost a year ago, when I was going through a dry spell in my writing. I say dry spell, but it was more like I had a short wet spell and I wrote this afterward. Anyway, there's not really that much to say about it, so here it is:

Here's a struggler for the muse, looking for the rush of insight, the thrust and turn of thought, meme blades seeking out the real, the true, the blood to spill onto a page. Here's a wonder, sitting at a keyboard, a sheaf of paper, the edge of some class notebook, fingers poised, pencil raised, ready for the flood to come. Here's a vandal, sneaking through classics, crawling through anthologies, randomly reading the first lines of novels, dragging his sponge across the page, seeking unspent thoughts for his own. Here's a dreamer on the hillside, watching clouds and stars and dancing shadows, treating thoughts like seeds, and words as leaves, begging nature for its freshest breath. Here's a child rhyming madly, playing stories, making, laughing, loving the sound of her voice, the rhythm of nonsense, the taste of surprise.

Here's a writer...