I write because writing is the hardest work I’ve ever done. It is slow and painstaking and frustrating. I do not begin with an idea or a theme, and I don’t make outlines. I don’t have a plan for the ending or, usually, for the next page or the next line. Even short pieces might take shape over years. Everything that I have ever seen, done, or felt, had, shared, or lost, is in play, and the word of the day is, on most days, confusion.

Donald Antrim on living “The Unprotected Life” (via newyorker)

“writing is the hardest work I’ve ever done.”

So true, so true. And, yet, it keeps us comes back day after day, to practice and refine and then release on its own into the world.