Writing requires a strange mix of sensitivity (to detect possibility, and to be able to honestly critique your own material) and brutishness (to sit down day after day and plink out words, and to not get hung up on every obstacle/criticism).  Perhaps there’s some deep metaphor/analogue in there, but I’m simply grateful that I can write, because that balance of sensitivity/brutishness is hard as hell to acquire.  

(I’ve heard this described as “the sensitivity of a butterfly, combined with the hide of a rhinoceros.”)

15 thoughts on “Musings

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