I am so drawn to write to you a long letter in my volatile hand, a letter that meanders and plaints about writing and my inability to express my thoughts and the quixotic workings of my brain. But what is the point? I can’t mail it; you’ll never receive it; knowing these things I become self-conscious and step even further away from any ability to express myself. I am quietly jealous of those writers who know or c;aim to know what writing must or should be for at the very least, themselves, to qualify as ‘good” or ‘worth writing’ or even honest.
Me, all I know is that I am often lost in the wild woods. And sometimes glad to be there.