this is not a revelation, like saying i secretly like whiskey. because i don't, secretly or openly.
perhaps more than the act of creation, i like having created something.
having something to show for my time, for hours and minutes of disorder brought to clarity.
but the process is not always pleasant.
often it makes me cranky and isolated and incapable of focusing on anything else.
it can make me doubt my capabilities with language or even my own mind.
but when it works, when 600 words become 1,300 and those words have shape and weight, when maybe a single sentence feels like a miniature triumph- a sentence that perhaps no one will ever read but you- then for a moment it's like birthday cake and the fourth of july and a hug from the one you love.
even if in the morning, it all looks like the work of a toddler.
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